Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games
by Faith Rivens
Summary: A modern-day Jack the Ripper is on the loose, terrorizing London. Sherlock is on the case, certain that Moriarty is behind the devestation. He soon finds himself on a wild chase, falling deeper into the darkness of his mind. AU. Started before season 2.
1. Prologue

**Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games**

**Warning: Spoilers for 1st season of Sherlock. Don't read if you haven't watched the show yet and are planning on doing so.**

Copyright: I don't pretend to own Sherlock Holmes, though maybe I would pretend to own Benedict. *Sigh* And I don't pretend to be nearly as talented as Moffat or to own any of the characters that he's created or those that belong to the ingenious Arthur Conan Doyle. The only thing I own is my imagination, some characters and parts of the plot if you squint and read it upside down.

Prologue:

They were caught in a stalemate.

The silent hush that pervaded the room was as deadly as the bomb lying before them. So much depended on the pile of explosives resting scattered on the floor. A matter of life or death. So trite, but too true. Time was frozen around the group standing where paramedics had once furiously attempted to resuscitate Carl Powers. They had failed, and the young boy had lost his life to the poisonous mind of Jim Moriarty.

_I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart._

Sherlock grimaced as he kept the gun trained on the explosives. Only moments ago they had been strapped to a jacket which John had adorned. A walking bomb; an attempt to get at Sherlock, to get where no one had ever gotten before.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Moriarty had assumed, had heavily relied on the belief that John Watson meant something to him. He wasn't incorrect. John Watson was somewhat of a novelty in his life, someone he could trust as a friend. The devestation of seeing him blown apart...

Sherlock shuddered uncontrollably. He tried to return to a calm sense of being, but the gravity of the situation was fully pressing down on him now. Only seconds ago, Jim Moriarty had played them, leading them to believe that he would let them continue to exist. And then he had stridden back in like nothing, ready to claim two more victims.

His senses had never been so astute, standing in the dim light of the swimming pool, inches away from death, seconds away from an act that would hopefully claim only two lives.

He glanced now at John and nodded as indiscreetly as possible towards the nearby door. A blink. John understood perfectly what was required of him, Sherlock had no doubt. When he pulled the trigger, John would have to be quick to make it safely out of the room before the explosion could claim his life as well.

If he were really lucky, his act would only take one life.

His eyes fell on Moriarty once more. _Jim, Jim from the hospital._ What an insufferable man? Sherlock could still not decide if he felt Moriaty to be worthy of praise or detestation. Definitely, abhorrence came from the horrid game that the man was playing, but admiration came as well, admiration of the sheer brilliance of the plot that had drawn him so cruelly to this place. Hate or love him, Moriarty was a genius.

Moriarty was sizing him up now too, his face teeming with a number of various emotions. Surprise had been the strongest when Sherlock had first marked his target, but the expression had been a fleeting one. Now a mixture of admiration, intrigue and doubt were flooding his features.

"Do it," he whispered tauntingly, "Blow us to hell."

He froze. For a split second, Sherlock's mind blanked. Confusion flooded in like a bad nightmare, infiltrating his dreams. Confusion was his waking mind's nightmare and staring at Moriarty, Sherlock could not help but falter to bewilderment.

Was the man standing in front of him bluffing? Was he toying with them, forcing them to pull the triggers on themselves? A suicide, not a murder? If he wasn't bluffing, then why hadn't those snipers shot him yet? Why?

Sherlock's mind began to race at a fever pitch. If Jim Moriarty really wanted them dead, he could have already had them shot. A single bullet would cut them down without remorse. Instantly dead, there would be no chance to pull the trigger, there would be no explosion, no chance to drag a third man to his grave. But no. There had been no command and time continued to pass at a snail's pace as the stalemate lingered on. Life and death hung in an unsteady balance with any single decision a perpetual chance to lead to their untimely demise.

And what if John was the one holding the gun now, and not he? Would he have already taken the shot? Most likely...probably...definitely. And Moriarty would be dead...or would he?

This interesting, new possibility burst through him like a blast of light in the darkness of his bewilderment. But before he could further develop the idea, the unmistakeable sound of a rifle going off penetrated the silence of the darkened swimming pool. A sharp cry of immense pain followed, sending a wave of chills sweeping through Sherlock's body. He turned, his mind blank now, erased of any thoughts of Moriarty and the bomb. Horror took over the calm composure he had been struggling to maintain as his mind registered only a single thought. _John._

Blood was spilling profusely out of a wound in John's side. His eyes were closed, his breathing laboured as he desperately tried to staunch the bleeding with his own hands. But, despite his best efforts, the blood was still seeping mercilessly through his fingers.

"John!" his voice was hoarse as he gazed at his friend...yes, friend, lying on the ground, pained and helpless. The feeling of sheer terror rising in chest was not unlike the sentiment that had enveloped him when he had first seen John strapped to the monstrosity of explosives.

Time slowed even more, if that was possible, to a point of excruciating sluggishness. Moriarty had made the decisive move, and all resolve that Sherlock possessed was crashing away. In a fluid movement, he raced towards John. As he did, the piercing sound of another bullet being released rang through the air. The shot, intended for Sherlock, narrowly missed his head, if anything, by luck, and, instead, the bullet continued on its trajectory and finally came into contact with the set of explosives.

As the bomb was detonated, the snipers unleashed a hellfire of bullets. Many zipped harmlessly past Sherlock, but one caught him on the shoulder. He forced his mind not to focus on the thrilling pain that stung his entire left arm as he finally reached John.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

He could feel the heat of the explosion as it ripped apart the pool behind him. And then, he was lifted off his feet, flying in mid air, flying out of the room.

His body was thrown through the door. Glass shattered around him as he crashed through, tiny shards of debris impaling him as he went. And he seemed to go on forever, a body in the air, controlled only by the laws of the earth. Finally, gravity sank in and he hit the ground, hard, only a few feet away from the exploding room

Sherlock groaned in pain as his head collided with the cold floor. Every inch of his body ached. His mind was malfunctioning. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, couldn't compute. His hard drive was failing. But he needed...needed what...needed something...what?

'_Sherlock, run!'_

'_John'_

He tried to raise his head, but his strength was dwindling. Consciousness was slowly slipping from his grasp, but he couldn't let himself fade away before knowing if John...seeing if John was...believing that there was still a chance that John...

By some luck, his eyes settled on a shape lying still, a few inches away, covered in debris. The limp, contorted shape of his body was hardly promising, hardly a reason to rejoice, hardly...

_I will burn the heart out of you._

_

* * *

_

**A.N.**

Hi all! Yes, I'm back. That's right. A million years later I've made my return to Fanfiction with a new fandom: Sherlock, BBC. For those of you who have never watched the show, you simply must. It's incredible and unique and one of the best shows on tv. The first season just ended and you have a year to catch up before the second one airs so scurry to your computers and watch now. It will blow you away :D

Anyway, I'm trying my hand at a what comes next because I can't wait a year before knowing Moffat's scenario. I know it's probably terrible, but if you'll just give it a chance, I promise it will get better. And to help me get it to that stage, I would love feedback. Feedback makes me smile, makes me write more, inspires me to continue. I don't plan on not finishing, unless people think it's terrible, so let me know with a helpful comment or a constructive critique and a friendly suggestion.

The next three chapters are already done being written, but I need to type them up and edit before they become fanfic material. I hope to have a chapter up a week, but that might fail with midterms breathing down on my neck. But please stick around because I will :D

God Bless,

Faith Rivens


	2. Chapter One

**COPYRIGHT: **I don't own any aspect of Sherlock Holmes. The masterful genius of Steven Moffat and Arthur Conan Doyle is something I can only worship from afar. The only thing I can claim ownership of is the plot if you read between the lines and some of the characters who will appear later, oh yeah, and Benedict is one hundred percent mine...in my weirdest fantasies ;)

**Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games**

Chapter One

Sherlock woke to a painful throbbing in his right temple. He felt, quite literally, like lead: heavy, difficult to move, cold. His hard drive too was still in the process of starting up as he struggled to remember how to open his eyes. The darkness was obtrusive. How was he to think if he could not open his eyes, could not master all six senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, deduction.

When at last he managed to unglue his eyelids and peel them back from his eyes, it was only to realize that the outside world was a blurred setting of fuzzy colours and shapes. He shut his eyes again. Reality was no use to him now, dead or alive. As long as his brain remained in its damaged state, fuddled and confused, unable to remember, unable to think...it would do him no good. How annoying. In this state, he was equally useless, useless to the world, unfit to live. How irritating. Who was he if he could not even remember what had put him in this sorry state?

He was Sherlock Holmes, aged: young enough, eyes: a green of sorts, hair: a dark mop, height: tall enough to intimidate, weight: did that really matter, marital status: nonexistent forever and ever, amen, occupation: consulting detective, the only one in the world, though, without a functioning mind, he would make a rather poor one.

The more he forced his mind to think, the quicker his brain began to work again, the quicker he could begin to make sense of all that had happened.

Last known location: 221B Baker Street...no, somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere muggy, somewhere important, somewhere significant...a swimming pool. Significance of swimming pool: someone died there. Who? Someone, a long time ago. Who? Carl Powers.

Sherlock's eyes flew open again as his memories came pouring in. His hard drive was whirring with information, as it entered the final stages of its restart process. Yes, everything was coming back. The Bruce-Parrington USB, the five pips, the bomber, Moriarty, John...

_I will burn the heart out of you._

His head shot up now too as he tried to sit up. The fuzzy shapes of before were now clear images. He was in a hospital...St. Bart's most likely, and he was strapped to some goddamned machine, an IV protruding from the crook of his arm.

"What the...Sherlock?"

Lestrade? The Detective Inspector's presence didn't really register in the back of his mind as he continued to struggle against technology and its impressive control over his wearied body. With long, slender fingers, he attempted to rip the various wires, connecting him to the machines, off his limbs, but a stronger hand came down hard against him.

"Sherlock, stop! You need to rest! You're still in shock!"

"Not that again!" He struggled against Lestrade's grip, "Oh for heaven's sake! Release my arm this instance! There is something that I must see to."

"If it's about Dr. Watson, you won't get very far," Lestrade's voice was soft but honest. No need to sugar coat reality with nasty white lies. "He's in surgery, but he should be out soon."

Sherlock did not want to admit defeat, did not want to accept that the fate of John Watson was beyond his control. He could not accept it, would not accept it, because he knew it to be untruthful. After all, if it had not been for their relationship, John would not be in critical condition, he would never have been strapped to a bomb, would not have been a human bargaining chip.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

"Shut up!" Sherlock roared without warning. Moriarty: damned, brilliant, deceiving, lying, taunting, masterful, hateful, admirable, frustrating Moriarty would not leave him be. He remained a painful echo in the back of his mind. _"Play the game Sherlock. Play it to win it or lose big."_

Lestrade flinched at Sherlock's outburst. "I didn't say anything."

"And I wasn't talking to you," Sherlock retorted crossly, his thoughts still haunted by Moriarty's face. If only his mental self could punch the smug look off the Moriarty-image's face. _"You can't get rid of me Sherlock. I'm here to stay."_

"_Not forever, not while I'm alive."_

"_Well, that won't be for very long. You'll be joining John Watson soon enough."_

"Doctor John Watson." Sherlock had not meant to speak aloud, but the anger pulsing through his veins was causing another mental meltdown. Then, there was something else...one of the tubes...they were inflicting him with a dulling drug...morphine, no doubt. Well, he wouldn't have it. He needed full control of his senses, needed the pain to keep him sharp, to remind him of how close he has come to meeting Death.

He glanced at Lestrade's bewildered features and his frown deepened. "You need to get me to John, now. There has to be something I can do. And get these goddamned wires out of my body." Once more, Sherlock scrabbled against the restraining grip of the machines he was fully hooked to.

"Sherlock!" Exasperation lined the edge of Lestrade's commanding voice. He fought now with Sherlock, a struggle that was horribly unmatched as Sherlock struggled not only against Lestrade, but against his own fatigue as well.

Finally, he collapsed back on the bed, the fall of his head cushioned by a fluffy pillow, how horribly unlike him. Still, he was unwilling to admit defeat. "I am not in shock. I do not need to be confined to a bed. I am perfectly healthy, perfectly capable of taking care of myself. So, release me from this…devil pit! I cannot lie here any longer."

"You just narrowly escaped a bomb detonation, not to mention a torrent of bullets," Lestrade argued in disbelief as he relaxed his tense muscles. There were lines of exhaustion creasing his forehead and horrible dark spots outlining the lower lids of his eyes. "You're being unreasonable, Sherlock." He sighed in defeat as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "Look, if it'll get you to stay put, I'll personally go see how the good doctor is faring."

"Fine," Sherlock humphed after a delay. "Be quick about it."

Without another word, Lestrade hurried out of the room, leaving a trail of displeasure in his wake. Sherlock watched him go with a furrowed brow. How painfully infuriating. He glanced quickly around the room, but there was absolutely nothing of interest for his brain to consider. Sighing, he sunk into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Moriarty's face appeared again in the darkness, still smug, still smiling. _"You're so cute, lying all helpless on a hospital bed. I wonder what sort of man you can be Sherlock, when there is something to lose."_

"_A dangerous man," _Sherlock replied coolly.

"_We'll see."_

Sherlock's eyes popped open once more. _Ridiculous!_ He was arguing with his own mind, his own mental creation, a figment of his imagination. _"Go away. You have no right to be in my mind."_

"_Oh, you have no idea."_

He was annoying, a voice in his head that had to be gotten rid of. If putting a gun to his head would have eradicated the problem without terminating his own life, he would have put a bullet in his temple without a single second of hesitation. But as it was...

"_You would die and I would live on, a man capable of eternal life. As long as you do not exist, I remain untouchable, invincible, the lord of the crime world."_

"_I am not going anywhere. I will bring you to justice."_

The Moriarty in his mind shrugged, smiling tauntingly. _"You can try." _He waved at him, laughing silently, and then vanished, leaving a dead hush in his wake. Sherlock sighed as was he relieved of the burden of another voice in his mind. How frustrating, to have to deal with two minds instead of one. It would take a lot of strength to keep this Moriarty at bay. One alone was enough to deal with. Because the other Moriarty, the one who had conned him into meeting, who had played his little game, who had destroyed the lives of innocent civilians, was still alive. If there was anything that Sherlock was sure of, it was that Jim Moriarty was still walking the face of the earth; in his mind there was nothing clearer. Moriarty had survived the explosion, just as he and John had...would...had...

But he had failed; he, Sherlock Holmes, had failed. Failure was not something that he had often come face to face with, but with Moriarty it seemed almost inevitable. His plan should have worked, should have gotten them away safely, but he had failed to destroy Moriarty, failed to escape without a scratch, failed to keep John safe.

"And how are we feelin' today, love?"

Sherlock grimaced as a stout woman entered his room, adorned in white and carrying a tray of medicine and various needles. Immediately, Sherlock's mind began to whir, taking in every little aspect that he could.

She had a chirpy personality, bubblier than normal for someone working in a hospital. _Optimist_. She approached his bedside in long strides. _Confident_. A wave of roses...no lilies...a hint of ginger. _Cheap. A present._ She leaned forward to prepare the meds. There was a slight scarring on the line on her neck, surrounded by faded black marks. _Beaten and abused._ Her hair was a hazel with some grey streaks beginning to show through. _Late forties._ There was a small white flower in her hair. _Plastic. Cheap. Another gift._ There was a slight dusting of dirt in her fingernails and the tips of her fingers were covered in ink. _Gardener. Writer. _And on her ring finger, the tell-tale tan line. _Married for many years, but divorced. Handwritten letters, note taker. Old fashioned. _She smiled as she noticed him staring. Her lips were coated in some glossy lipstick, and so were some of her pearly white teeth. _Hurriedly put it on. Worn out during the day. Make-out session midday. _A few glints of gold with all the white. _Obviously not cavities. More abuse. _A closing puncture wound at the tip of her tongue. _Recent divorcee, ex-husband was an abuser, currently in a steady relationship with a younger man, maybe twenty years her senior and definitely unemployed._

"Ring not part of the dress code?"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." Sherlock sighed deep again. _Boring_.

The nurse smiled again as she reached forward to give him a pill and a glass of water. "To help you rest."

"I don't need it," Sherlock insisted, refusing to take either, "Leave me alone."

The nurse did not even look slightly bothered by his refusal. She smiled kindly, not backing away. "Now, I know who you are."

"Congratulations."

Her eyes narrowed at Sherlock's indifferent, condescending reply. "You listen to me, Mr. Holmes. I am no pushover. I've had my fair share of misogynists and you sir are not nearly as problematic as the many before you."

"I am sure that you are mostly referring to your abusive ex-husband."

The nurse bristled, now discomforted. "How do you know about that?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's not exactly rocket science. You have a faint scar line on the base of your neck, not to mention some faded bruise marks. Your ring finger has a tan line where your ring used to be. So abusive, ex-husband, not too long ago. You must have been the one to initiate the divorce, why else you would you choose to infest the ward with your bubbly demeanour, not to mention the fading ring hole in your tongue which he no doubt made you get against your will." Sherlock smiled as he finished his diagnosis. The look of shocked awe on the woman's face made up for the fact that he was still wired to half a dozen machines. "And, of course, I should congratulate you on a new boyfriend: unemployed is he, and at least 20 years your junior…"

Before Sherlock could dive into a more thorough examination of this new relationship, the nurse chucked the paper cup in her hand at him, dousing him in a gush of water. He sputtered as some of it go up his nose.

"Piss off," she swore before marching out the door. As her figure disappeared out the room, another entered, looking extremely confused.

"What the hell did you do?"

"The usual," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He wiped his face with the sheets from his bed while Lestrade remained still in the doorway. "Well?"

The confused expression took a while to disappear. When it was finally replaced with comprehension, his brow furrowed. "Sherlock…"

"I actually don't want to hear the rest of that sentence." Fear entered his blood stream and began to course through his veins alongside the morphine and countless other drugs pumping through his system. If John didn't…but John had to. He had been a military man, a soldier on the battlefield. He had encountered devastating horrors left and right, had already survived one gunshot wound. He could survive this one too.

"I've honestly never seen you so worked up like this before."

Sherlock glared at Lestrade, but with the morphine muddling his head, it was increasingly difficult to find proper retorts. "I should have protected him better."

"You feel guilty? But you did the best you could."

"No. I could have done better."

Silence followed Sherlock's last statement. Emotions were raging within him, no doubt a side effect of the drugs. He wished they would go away. Feeling, hurt more than the pain in his shoulder ever could. At this point, sleep seemed a better predicament. But before Sherlock could even attempt to escape into the world of the unconscious, the nurse-divorcee stormed back into the room, this time accompanied by a tall, slim man with short red hair, sporting a white lab coat.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I'm Doctor Francis Raven and I'll be your attending physician for the next few day…"

"I'm not planning on staying that long," Sherlock quickly interrupted, earning him another disproving glare from the nurse. The doctor only smiled appreciatively.

"Nurse Joanna was just telling me about your little episode," he continued, acting as if the interruption had not even taken place.

Sherlock regarded the man carefully and as his eyes took in every possible detail, a smirk slowly crept across his face. "I'm certain it's nothing like the episode you two had earlier. The tinge of pink lipstick on your cheek and at the edge of your lips says as much. I suppose that does mean that I was incorrect to assume that you were unemployed. You must just be really cheap."

Doctor Raven's mouth dropped open, but he struggled to speak as words failed his bewildered mind. Nurse Joanna, meanwhile, was riled to the point of irritation by his latest accusation. She took a step forward, but her lover held her back with a restraining hand place strategically on her shoulder

"But that is hardly the point," Sherlock spoke again, ignoring the tense silence claiming the room. "I do not need your attention, or your medical care. I do not need to be sedated or drugged. What I need is for you to go check in on Doctor John Watson who is currently to be found undergoing surgery…"

"In fact, Doctor John Watson is not in surgery. He is upstairs in the ICU."

A mixture of surprise and disbelief clouded Sherlock's face, before anger too pervaded his features. He did not appreciate being interrupted, especially when it was done to correct him.

"_Hypocrite!"_

Moriarty was back again, sticking his long, crooked nose where it did not belong. Sherlock quickly shut out the face as he focused his frustration on Lestrade. "You said he was in surgery."

Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock's discontentment was flung onto him. "Actually, you didn't let me tell you anything."

"A minor detail. Your expression spoke far louder than your words. Though, apparently, they were in sever disagreement," Sherlock retorted irritably before turning his attention back to the doctor, "But no matter. Doctor John Watson is still in need of more assistance than I. Do not waste what must be your superb medical knowledge on a man in good health, when it could be put to better use helping a suffering man."

Doctor Raven bristled under Sherlock's demanding tone. "And what of my other patients, Mr Holmes? There are many men and women in this hospital who are closer to death than your boyfriend."

Lestrade chortled in the corner. Sherlock threw him a quick death stare before staring hard at Raven. The man's sense of humour was deeply unappreciated. "I am not responsible for those people." The second point he did not even bother to correct.

_Why correct something that's true?_

Sherlock struggled to hold back the ever present voice in his head, but the numbing effects of the morphine was making it infuriatingly difficult to take control. He was slipping under; mental-Moriarty was winning this battle.

_You're so weak._

_I will not let you destroy me._

_Ob, but you have no idea of how wrong you are._

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock met the eyes of Lestrade as he gazed around the room. Something like concern was tingeing the corner of his eyes. Meanwhile the doctor and nurse couple were standing even closer to his bed, Raven holding a needle in his hand. "You need to rest, Mr Holmes. It's been a long day, and you're not yourself." Without a second's hesitation, the doctor inserted the needle into one of the multiple tubes and its contents immediately hurried towards Sherlock's blood stream.

"I don't need rest!" Sherlock insisted. He scrabbled against the wires, but his efforts came too late as the sedating drug entered his veins. He could feel it coursing through his body, singing him to sleep. His vision slowly blurred while his eyelids drooped back over his eyes. Then his conscious mind gave way to the unconscious.

And as Sherlock's mind fell into the darkness, Moriarty's sneering features rushed out to greet him.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

* * *

Sherlock is at the swimming pool, standing in the dim light of the muggy dampness, holding the Bruce-Parrington USB in his hands, holding it up like a gift offering. He glances around quickly, doing a full 360 before finally halting.

"You brought me a present?"

Sherlock watches as a man emerges from the shadows. He knows the face, has seen it somewhere before. Where? The memory is so far removed, so terribly faded in his mind, he can only assume that their first meeting was unsubstantial.

"I gave you my number."

Sherlock forces himself to think harder, willing the memory to rise up, but it does not come.

"You didn't call."

There is something in the man's drawl that gives Sherlock the proper push in the right direction. He remembers him now and he was right. Their meeting had been fleeting. "Jim, Jim from the hospital?" It is supposed to come out as a statement, but it comes instead as a question.

The man…Jim…Moriarty…smiles as he moves from the shadows and makes his way towards Sherlock, coming closer and closer. Sherlock does not allow his eyes to stray as he progresses forward. The weight of the gun in his pant pocket comes as a relief. He can it, he is certain of that. One blow to the brain and the deed will be done. No more Moriarty.

"I have a present for you too."

Sherlock's brow furrows in confusion, confusion that swiftly turns to trepidation and fear as another figure emerges from a side door.

"John!"

He has underestimated Moriarty's cunning, a fatal error. Worse, he has allowed himself to be vulnerable.

John pulls back the folds of the coat he is wearing to reveal explosives strapped to his torso. He is trembling, and why shouldn't he be? A red dot appears on his chest. A sniper stands somewhere, hidden from view, the red dot, the only testimony to his presence. It marks John, trapping him. Moriarty continues to grin as he moves even closer.

"Now, give me the USB."

Sherlock reaches forward without hesitation and as Moriarty nabs the device from his fingers, reaches for the revolver in his pocket and pushes it against Moriarty's head. "What would happen if I pulled the trigger?"

"You know what would happen," Moriarty chuckles. He holds the USB up to Sherlock's face and then tosses it into the pool. Sherlock stares after it wonderingly before snapping his attention back to Moriarty.

Moriarty merely shrugs and then in one fluid movement, punches Sherlock in the face. He stumbles back as the impact catches him unawares. It isn't supposed to happen like this. John isn't supposed to be here, isn't supposed to be a factor in this game. He's supposed to be at Sarah's, safe, away from a conflict that involves only Moriarty and himself.

It takes Moriarty no time at all to use Sherlock's indisposition to his advantage. He reaches for the gun with one hand, while pushing Sherlock to the ground with the other. Swiftly, he positions himself behind Sherlock, holding him down with one hand while training the gun on his head with the other.

Sherlock glances upwards at John. The doctor's eyes reveal a deathly terror gripping at his soul. There is a sign of helplessness in his eyes too and Sherlock is certain that the same emotions are mirrored in his own irises.

"Isn't this an interesting situation?" Moriarty laughs from behind.

"Why don't you just kill me?" Sherlock whispers coolly, tauntingly, no trace of panic voice though his being is suffering through those exact feelings.

Moriarty's chuckle becomes condescending. "Don't be so obvious. While killing you would no doubt bring me immense happiness, I have another idea, something much more entertaining."

Sherlock tries to guess at what that might me. The first thing to jump to his mind disturbs him more than the idea of death. "Not exactly my area," he growls, his gaze still lingering on John's frozen form.

"Ooh…a dirty mind. I like it." Moriarty pauses and Sherlock can feel the metal of the revolver on the nape of his neck. The cool, harsh metal makes him shiver unwillingly. "But while I am certain that our act of love would be especially amusing, I can't help but believe that my original idea is far better."

Sherlock's mind begins to work again, this time trying to figure a way out of this situation, a way to gain the advantage without putting John's life in immediate danger. But there is no time for him to think. Moriarty yanks him, punitively, off the ground and pulls him back, keeping the gun trained on his head.

They continue to retreat until they find themselves standing with back to one of the many doors. Sherlock is pushed to ground once more, his knees hitting the concrete with a resounding crack.

"Sherlock!"

The strangled cry emerges from the lone figure of John Watson who stands still, anxiety crushing his features. Sherlock tries to reassure him, but no words can pass his lips. He's struggling to get a grip on the situation, but he's failing…horribly. "What do you want from me?" he asks angrily, frustrated by this helplessness.

"I don't want anything from you, honey," Moriarty whispers softly, his face pressed against Sherlock's, his mouth breathing on his ear, "Well, I say there's nothing. What I want, is to see you suffer, what I want is to burn the heart out of you."

"I have been invaluably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know, that's not quite true."

The gun is suddenly gone from his head. He knows what is going to happen next, but it is too late to act. The trigger is pulled and in a blink of an eye, John Watson is blown to oblivion.

* * *

Sherlock woke, the sound of the explosion still resounding in his ears as he was forcefully thrown back into reality. His chest heaving as his breathing came in sharper gasps and his heart beat remained at an elevated pace. His eyes were wide open, but he could still feel the heat of the explosion on his skin, could taste the bitter ash in his mouth, could hear the roaring sound of the detonation in his ears, could smell the acrid scent of burning flesh, could see John Watson being blown apart…

"Enough!" Sherlock roared.

A deafening silence followed the last reverberations of his cry. He was alone in his room, but he felt as if he were surrounded by a crowd of people. He felt vulnerable and emotionally weak, two feelings that were not at all welcomed. He wanted them to go away, needed them to leave him be. He hated feeling this way, hated himself for feelings this way, and hated Moriarty for making him feel this way.

The dream had been so vividly realistic, more real than any dream he had ever dreamt before. It remained fresh in his mind even as his heart rate began to decrease, leaving him with a disturbing sense of anxiety.

The door to his room opened suddenly and tall Doctor Raven walked in once more. He smiled as he saw Sherlock awake and walked right to his side, blind to the terrified, ashen expression that Sherlock wore. "Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. How are we feeling?"

"I assume you are referring to my body and mind as two separate entities," Sherlock remarked. While he was annoyed by the doctor's presence, Sherlock could help but admit that the sudden interruption of the fallen silence allowed for his mind to cool down. "That, or you expect me to speculate on how you are as well as how I am…"

"That's not quite…"

"At which point, I would have to admit that I feel as fine as I could be considering and that, by the honesty god awful scent of ginger trailing you, your day has reached its peak after another passionate rendezvous with Nurse Joanna in some cramped closet."

Doctor Raven's smile had faltered long ago as he endured Sherlock's blatant deductive reasoning, and now his lips were curved in a disapproving scowl. "You really don't know when to stop, do you, Mr Holmes?"

"Some would call it a talent," Sherlock shrugged, "Now, why are you here?"

"If you're so deductive, why don't you tell me," Raven challenged Sherlock, his voice cruelly taunting, deviously testing the detective, pushing him.

"Match well met. There are only two reasons that I can properly conceive of. First, one of your residents heard me cry out and called you up in fear of finding me indisposed towards their generous concern. Second, someone came a calling, a visitor for me, who sent you ahead to make sure that I am awake and coherent. My better instincts would claim the latter to be the least likeliest of all, as you can probably imagine. I may be brilliant, but I'm not so popular. Of course, there is one person to my knowledge who would no doubt want to infuriate me with their false pretence of brotherly concern. If that is the case, you may tell Mycroft to leave. If, however, it is the nurses who called you to my bedside, because it is doubtful that no one heard my cry and that, by extension, no one informed you of it, then let me assuage your well placed concerns. I am fine."

Raven was stunned to silence. Sherlock grinned. He had been right on both counts then. Fascinating. At least this meant that his mind was still operating properly, even if the rest of him wasn't. Apparently the doctor had not suspected that he would be right either, because it took him quite a bit of time before he could regain control of his motor skills. "I'll see what I can do."

Ten minutes later, Raven returned, accompanied by Mycroft. Sherlock groaned inwardly as his brother limped towards his bedside. Like always, Mycroft wore a look of pure disapproval, a scowl that he held trademark over as the condescending older brother. He was a man, who refused to be content, except, perhaps, when passing out orders.

He sank into the seat beside Sherlock's bed, not even a glimmer of concern perceptible in his stern mannerisms.

"If you need any assistance, Nurse Joanna will be right outside."

The doctor walked out of the room, leaving the Holmes's brothers in a tense silence that was anything but unusual for them. In all truth, Sherlock did not want the silence to go away. He would rather take on Moriarty 100 times over than be forced to deal with Mycroft. Hoping to make the point clear by ignoring his brother's presence and averting his gaze, Sherlock began to count down the seconds to when his brother would finally make a move.

When Mycroft finally did, it was only to take a step in the wrong direction. "When did you lose your common sense?"

Sherlock grimaced as Mycroft's hard, belittling voice penetrated the silence like a gunshot. "When did you lose yours?"

"Sherlock!"

"What? So you can ask me when I lost my virginity, but I can't ask you. I'm hurt."

Mycroft was not impressed. "Like a child. Why do you refuse to grow up?"

"Because NeverNeverLand is such a wonderful place."

"Sherlock, this is no joking matter! You could have gotten yourself killed."

"A simple problem with a simple remedy: clap your hands and show you do believe in faeries."

Mycroft shook his head in resignation. "Can you not understand that I genuinely care for you, for your wellbeing? You almost died."

Sherlock sobered up. "I didn't even come close. And you don't care for me. That much I know to be true,. What you want to know is what's been done to the USB."

"That never even crossed my mind. I don't care about what happened to Andrew West or who killed him, not when I'm faced with the fact that you could have been killed."

"Oh, don't waste your breath," Sherlock snapped irritably. There wasn't a shred of sincerity in his brother's voice. He was not so naïve to believe that there was any love between the two of them, not anymore. No, he doubted very much that Mycroft actually felt as he said. "If I had died, you would have gained the sympathy of your avid followers, but I survived, and you had to prove that you actually cared. Yet another one of your carefully drawn out political stunts. Well, don't squander your talent on me: it's obviously not appreciated."

"Obviously," Mycroft mused, as he stood up, "I heard that your…companion, Doctor John Watson, was badly injured in the explosion. A terrible shame that. He was such a nice man."

If looks could kill… Sherlock glared daggers at Mycroft as he probed him where he was most vulnerable. "Doctor Watson is going to make a full recovery."

"No thanks to you."

"Get out of my room," Sherlock's voice came out low and threatening. He wasn't going to stand for Mycroft's impudence. Not. At. All.

"With pleasure."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on Mycroft until he disappeared from his path of vision before sinking back into his bed. He stared, unseeingly, at the ceiling, feeling worse than he had before Mycroft's unexpected visit. How could Mycroft so easily believe that he, Sherlock Holmes, could be fooled like a simpleton into believing that there was genuine sincerity in his words? But that did not frustrate him nearly as much as the fact that Mycroft had been terribly right about the thing that mattered the most.

It was his fault that John was here and it would not be by his goodwill that those wounds would heal. He could not assure a recovery of any sorts nor could he ensure that John would return to full health. The only thing he had guaranteed was the bullet that had torn apart John's insides.

"Not a people person, eh?"

Raven was back again, grinning rather triumphantly.

"Is it a new requirement for doctor's to have sarcastic tendencies?" Sherlock retorted as he turned to glare at the doctor. "I guess they must, if they also permit sexual intercourse within a hospital setting."

The grin faded. "That's pure conjecture."

"No, it isn't. And I can prove it. Let's begin with the cheap, stifling ginger perfume that you both seem to be sporting…"

"Piss off," the doctor whispered as he approached Sherlock's bedside, "It's really none of your goddamned business." He took another needle and without even the slightest hint of hesitation, he injected it into Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock grimaced as the tip penetrated his skin. "How unprofessional."

"Your fault." The needled withdrawn, Sherlock could feel his brain going fuzzy again as the sedative did its job and led him once more into the darkness.

* * *

**AN:** Hi everyone. So Chapter One came up quicker than I had expected. I hope you all enjoyed it and that it wasn't too long. So, I didn't get any reviews on the prologue, and that leaves me wondering if this story is any good or not. Please, please leave me a comment of sorts to let me know if you're interested or not. Truth is, I love writing because I love to entertain people and I see fanfics as a group work. I need your feedback, your suggestions, to help me right the best story I can. So please leave me a review to let me know what you think so far.

Also, I should probably mention that this isn't a slash story, it's just a really tight Sherlock/Watson friendship because thier friendship is epically awesome. And while it is rated T, there might be a chapter or two that are M rated for violence, but you'll have fair warning so you can skip it if you don't like :)

Thanks and God Bless,

Faith Rivens


	3. Chapter Two

**A.N.** Hey everyone. So this chapter is a bit shorter than the last. It's more of a filler chapter than anything, with only a few interesting points. I apologize in advanced for the slowness of the chapter, but I hope you enjoy all the same, simply for the immense Sherlockness of it ;)

Also, I just wanted to make a shout out to the three people who reviewed my last chapter. Thank you so much for your comments. They were gorgeous and really inspired me to push ahead. So thank you to: **Jenny**, **Snow'sLuckyCat** and **ElvesWizardsCentaursOhmy**. I hope you all enjoy this next one :D

**Copyright: I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I don't own any part of Sherlock. As for the following story, I don't any characters except those darned nurses and doctors who just don't know when to shut up and the plot is totally mine if you read it blindfolded. ;)**

Chapter Two:

Rain was falling hard over downtown London, layering the streets in puddles of water. The droplets drummed hard against the old buildings, while thunder rumbled in the near distance. It was mid-afternoon, but it could have easily been the middle of night as the sun remained hidden behind an overcast sky. The storm clouds had conquered the lower atmosphere in the early moments of morning and were unrelenting in their victory. The downpour would continue for the rest of the day and well into the next.

And so it was to a gloom-filled London that Sherlock awoke. Unlike his last drug-induced sleep, this one had not brought him a damaging reimagining of the Moriarty meeting. Instead, it had rendered even his unconscious mind comatose and his slumber had been a dreamless one.

Staring out at the torrent of rain dashing against the sole window in his room, Sherlock felt more like his true self, relieved of a heavy burden, rejuvenated and extremely bored. The bed to which he was confined left him with a feeling of imprisonment, a feeling that prompted the desperate need to escape.

He reached for the IV drip running into the crook of his arm and tugged at it. But once again, Sherlock found his best attempts thwarted by the sudden appearance of Lestrade and the doctor known as Raven.

"Come to release me from captivity, I hope."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Sherlock had been expecting a myriad of replies, but none positive. No, this he had not been expecting at all, to the point where his suspicious nature doubted the truth behind the statement. "I don't appreciate your lies."

"It's not a lie," Raven insisted, "I'm going to allow you to go for a walk about, just to see how well you're recuperating. But I'm not discharging you, not yet. You'll have to stay one more night to make there isn't some infection in the wound or in case any other side effects choose to present themselves."

Sherlock scowled. "I sincerely doubt that one more night will make that much of a difference."

"I can make it another week, if you prefer."

"Well, when you put it that way," Sherlock sighed in defeat. One more night wouldn't kill him. "And what of…"

"John Watson is healing well," Raven informed him knowingly as he moved to release Sherlock from the various wires chaining him down. "You can go see if you wish, but I want you back in this bed in two hours time so that I can check your vitals."

Relief flooded over Sherlock as news of John's healing sank in. The guilt gnawing at his insides was slowly disappearing too as he realized that the doctor's blood would not stain his hands forever.

When the last of the drips were removed, Sherlock let out a deep breath of gratitude. There was a dull aching in his shoulder, but he could easily endure it. "Freedom," he whispered as he sat up straight and stretched out his limbs. They felt numb after being forced to stay still for so long , and he relished in finally being able to take control of his body once again. It was sheer bliss.

"See you in two hour." As the doctor walked off, Sherlock turned to Lestrade who was standing, grinning slightly, at the edge of his bed.

"I gather that you aren't here for mere moral support."

Lestrade shook his head and frowned. "We need to talk about what happened."

"Maybe later." Sherlock swung his legs over the end of the bed and pressed them against the cool, linoleum floor. Glory be! He then lifted the rest of his body off the body and stood as tall as he could. His grin widened. "Amazing. Standing really never felt so good."

"You've only been lying in bed for a day and a half!" Lestrade exclaimed incredulously. "Sometimes you lie in one place for hours without end. You don't act all awestruck then."

"Well last time I checked, I've never confined myself to one place against my own will like some masochist," Sherlock retorted, "Now, if you'll just excuse me…"

"This can't wait, Sherlock!"

"It can't wait two more hours?" Sherlock questioned disbelievingly as he began to walk towards the door. His legs felt slightly stiff, but as they moved and blood began to circulate again at a normal pace, he could feel them regaining their strength. "So much better."

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, okay, fine," Sherlock muttered irritably, "I went to a pool, was shot at and something exploded. Oh, and then I blacked out and came to in an alien aircraft where I was told that my entire life up to that point had all been some grand-scale hallucination. The hallucinations must still be effect, though, because you can't really exist and, therefore, I can't be of much help." With that, Sherlock strode past Lestrade and out of the room.

"Like a child," he heard Lestrade mutter as he shut the door behind him, locking the detective inspector in his room. There seemed to be a general consensus on his maturity level these days.

Now in a rather bland corridor, Sherlock let his mind take control of the situation. Nurses and doctors were rushing around him, exchanging news on their patients, discussing politics and reading charts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nurse Joanna watching him with disproving eyes. He glanced at her and waved, grinning broadly. She scowled and then walked quickly away. Triumphant, Sherlock hurried over to the lifts only to realize that he didn't know which floor he would find John on.

"Fourth floor. Room 416," Lestrade came up beside him carrying a navy blue robe. "You might want this to."

Sherlock grabbed it, having forgotten that he was dressed in hospital pyjamas. Throwing it over him, he pressed the up button and waited for the lifts to come. "The aliens must have destroyed by sense of proper dress too."

Lestrade's eyes did a 360. "Yeah, well that's not the only thing they messed with."

Sherlock grinned appreciatively. "We'll talk later. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Fantastic."

A sharp bell rang suddenly, announcing the arrival of his own personal transport. Sherlock stepped into the vacant lift, and then leaned forward to press the number four. The doors closed on Lestrade's amused expression before beginning their ascent. Sherlock leaned back against the wall as the lift took him up two floors. He was beginning to feel anxious. Even with the knowledge that John would survive, he could hardly dare to imagine the state he would find the doctor in.

The doors opened, revealing the ICU ward. Sherlock walked quickly into the hallway. What was the number again? 416. He glanced around. The door to his immediate right was 410. To his left: 408. Directing his feet right, Sherlock did not feel even a bit inclined to glance into the other rooms. It was not for him to impose his nosiness on the indisposed.

The door leading to 416 was slightly ajar. Sneaking a peek through the crack, Sherlock could make out a white coat leaning over the only bed in the room, hiding John from view.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed the door open. It creaked a little and the white coat spun around. The doctor, as he no doubt was, was far older than his own, with greying hairs and crinkled green eyes. "Can I help you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He extended. "I'm a friend of Doctor Watson."

"Oh yes." The doctor took his hand, his smile a kind one. "I'm Doctor Matthews. It's nice to see that you're doing well. John was asking about you earlier."

"How is he?" Sherlock asked quietly. There was an emotion invading his chest, one he could not really describe, one he had never really felt before.

"He's asleep at the moment, but I can guarantee that he'll make a full recovery." He paused. "You're very welcome to sit with him, if you wish."

"Thank you." Sherlock felt nothing less than awkward as he stood there. It had been a long time since he had last stood at someone's bedside…a very long time indeed.

Matthews nodded, still smiling. Wrinkles creased the edges of his lips, as he walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone with John.

Up to this point, Sherlock had been doing his bed to avoid looking at John, afraid of what he might see, afraid of the feelings that were tearing at his insides. But he could not ignore John forever.

His eyes moved uneasily over to John's prone figure. Stitches ran down John's right cheek and the top of his head was completely wrapped in white bandages. It was hard to discern how damaged the rest of his body had been as it remained covered by blankets. His left arm, however, was suspended above his body, entombed in a cast, elevated by a single sling. To believe that that was extent of the damage was a lie and Sherlock could feel the guilt building up like a demon in his soul.

"Oh John," he whispered as he leaned his head against the cold, unfriendly walls. It struck him as horribly unfair that he should have sustained so little injuries while John had suffered the brunt of the explosion. "Damn you Moriarty. You will pay. I swear it."

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock spun on his heels as a female voice invaded the silence. Sarah…or was it Mary...something like that…was standing in the doorway. Of course she would be here. Sherlock grimaced on the inside. He had only met the woman once, and, like most people he met only once, had left a rather poor first impression. Their first meeting had included deadly Chinese drug dealers, condescending insults and a near-death experience. No doubt, her thoughts of him were less than favourable, knowing that, on top of everything else, he had led John into another near fatal incident. No doubt, she hated him to the core.

"Sherlock, please," he offered, "I was just leaving."

"No you weren't," Sarah said knowingly. There was no coldness in her voice, no hint of anger or bitterness. She looked only tired and overly emotional. But there was something else there, something Sherlock couldn't quite understand…something like concern…for him.

She glanced at John and Sherlock could see the tears glistening in her eyes as she observed the damage he had sustained. She looked back at Sherlock and he could indeed see the red-rimmed appearance of her eyes as she desperately tried to wipe them away. From the look of her clothes, sweats and a bulky sweater, and the unruly manner in which her hair had been swept into a bun, Sherlock could be certain that she had rushed over the moment she had received news of John's condition.

He bit his lip, feeling even worse…how unlike him. "I can understand if you want to be alone with him." Sherlock attempted to show some kindness, something else he was not accustomed to doing. But he was doing it for her. It was perfectly obvious that John would prefer to wake to the woman he loved than to the man who had almost destroyed his existence. He did not belong here.

"I don't blame you for what happened," Sarah spoke in a hushed whisper, her voice cracking ever so slightly

"Pardon?"

"I don't blame you for what happened to John," Sarah repeated, raising her voice to a more audible level. "I know you blame yourself, but I don't. And I don't hate you either."

Sherlock was visibly stunned. Her words were registering in his mind, but he could not comprehend them. How could someone be so forgiving? If their positions had been switched, he would despise her with every fibre of his being.

"That surprises you? It surprises you that someone could forgive you so easily?" Sarah questioned, suffering through her own shocked revelation, "You didn't pull the trigger, did you? You didn't force him to go to the pool with you, did you? So how can it be your fault?"

"You're not even the slightest bit upset that he's injured and I'm not?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring her questions, still in disbelief, "Don't you resent me for being a hazard to his health?"

"Hazard to his…"

"Yes, hazard to his health?" Sherlock repeated, cutting her off, "Surely he tells you about the dangers we encounter. And you must remember your first date with him? Not exactly dinner and a movie. Everything bad that's happened to him in the past three months is because of me. And you mean to tell me that it doesn't bother you…not even a little?"

Sarah shook her head firmly, "I'd be lying if I said that it doesn't bother me to see him hurt. But to say that I blame you, well, it would be a lie as well." She paused to stare again at the sleeping man, "John has told me all about you, Sherlock…how you live off the world of crime…how you can be blatantly honest and insensitive. But he's also told me that you're brilliant, a proper genius and how you've isolated yourself because of it. Such a lonely life you lead."

"My life is none of your business." Sherlock's voice bristled with cool anger and resentment. He did not appreciate her trying to understand how his life worked. He did not need to be told that he was a cold man. He knew he was. And he was not really alone, never felt as if he suffered from loneliness. He was perfectly content with his lifestyle, perfectly content with the way he operated.

"Yes it is," Sarah insisted softly, "Because John is part of that life and I'm part of his." She tore her eyes away from John and lifted them once more to face the detective, revealing determination in her wearied eyes. "Get used to it."

Before Sherlock could offer a sharp retort, he caught the slightest hint of movement from where John lay. Sarah too had noticed it and hurried to the bed, looking anxious. She took the seat to the right and grabbed John's unharmed hand in hers. "John? Can you hear me?"

There was no immediate reply and then John's eyes fluttered open. From where he was standing, pressed against the walls, Sherlock felt an overwhelming amount of relief wash over him. As John's eyes found Sarah, he felt again like an intruder in a place he didn't truly belong. Slowly, he crept out of the room, his presence completely forgotten from Sarah's mind, and John never even knowing that Sherlock had been there.

"That was a quick two hours."

Sherlock shrugged despondently as Lestrade entered his room. He had been sitting in bed for the past half hour, waiting for Lestrade's return. He no longer felt as if he was a prisoner to this place, but nothing could fix the boredom pervading his mind. He needed to think about something, anything, though he would prefer if it had something do with a crime, particularly the crime that was Moriarty.

"There wasn't much to say. He was asleep."

"Is that why you're upset?"

"No. I'm upset because I had to wait half an hour for you to finally make an appearance," Sherlock snapped angrily. Lestrade raised his eyebrows, taken aback by Sherlock's outburst. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean to snap, I'm just…"

"Bored?" Sherlock nodded. "That's usually the case, isn't it?" Lestrade paused as he took a seat and pulled it closer to Sherlock. "Alright. Now, what really happened?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before staring off into the distance, the memories rushing back in. "I lured Mycroft to the swimming pool where Carl Powers died…"

"Wait! Who?"

"Carl…that's not important."

"Yeah, fine. But what were you trying to accomplish exactly?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, staring now at Lestrade. "Obviously I was trying to get John and myself blown up. Can I finish the story before you start asking your impertinent questions?"

Lestrade nodded, looking unimpressed by Sherlock's harsh belittlement. "Alright. Go on."

Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing on. "So I was waiting for Moriarty and suddenly John walks into the room, a pile of explosives strapped to his body…"

"Good lord! Er, sorry. Continue," Lestrade added hurriedly under Sherlock's cool gaze.

"Then Moriarty comes out, says a few words…actually, it was quite the inspirational speech, while snipers train their rifles on the good doctor. Then he does this disappearing act and I manage to free John from his chains, when guess who reappears? Apparently, he's a talented illusionist. So then, I take the gun, which I had been carrying on my person, and I point it at the explosives. And there's this faceoff when suddenly one of the snipers shoots John. Then there's a hellfire of bullets that come crashing around us and one manages to hit the explosives. The end."

Lestrade stared incredulously as Sherlock finished his story. It did not take a genius to understand the teasing sarcasm in Sherlock's voice. "That was a terrible story," he criticized, earning him another glare from Sherlock. "You have to give me more than a simple synopsis."

"You have everything you require. Now, here's what I …"

"No, hold on," Lestrade interrupted, "It's time for my impertinent questions." Sherlock nodded resignedly. "First, why did you initiate a meeting with this psychopath, when you were fully aware of what he was capable of?"

"Because I thought we could be friends," Sherlock replied, feigning innocence in his tone and facial expressions, going as far to play the puppy dog eyes. Cause no one can resist the puppy dog eyes. Except for Lestrade who was now glaring daggers at him. "Because I thought I could apprehend him."

"I don't believe you."

"Well that is just too bad, because that's the answer I'm giving."

"You're not that stupid."

Sherlock shot him another death glare. Of course he hadn't meant to catch Moriarty. At least Lestrade was smart enough to realize that. At least he knew better. But his real reasons were his own and Lestrade had no business trying to get them.

"Fine," Lestrade finally gave in as Sherlock continued with the silent treatment, "Now, are you sure you're not the one who cause the explosion?"

"Yes," Monosyllabic. Take that Lestrade. Stupid questions required simple answers.

Lestrade, however, was still waiting for more. What more could he possibly want? Lestrade answered the unasked question with another query. "Would you have pulled the trigger?"

Ah. A what-if question. How refreshing. As unnecessary as they were, Sherlock always managed to enjoy them when pointed at anyone but him. Now, it was just annoying. "Yes."

The answer had not been one Lestrade would have expected. "You really would have pulled the trigger? Blow the building to bits? Blown yourselves to pieces?"

"Yes." Sherlock did not hesitate. He knew it was true. No matter what anyone else said, no matter what Sarah thought, what John thought, what Lestrade thought, what Moriarty thought. He knew himself better than they ever could. And he knew he would have done it.

Lestrade shook his head. He didn't believe it.

He was delusional.

"I have a question for you if you're done."

"I'm not," Lestrade asserted, taking control of himself now, "What happened to Moriarty after the explosion?"

"Finally, a pertinent question. But not one that I can answer," Sherlock commented, "In fact, that was the very question that I was going to ask you?" It had been, in truth, the only question on his mind for some time, his one point of interest. Knowing now that Lestrade did not have a reply for him, did nothing to calm his racing mind.

"Sherlock, I've been to the pool myself. There was no other body. He must have escaped without a scratch."

"Impossible," Sherlock whispered, "He's somewhere in London, injured. You need to order an immediate check of all hospitals. Quickly!" Sherlock added for good measures, urgency resounding in his voice. "Lestrade!"

"Yes, I'm onto it." Lestrade hurried out of the room, frightened of Sherlock's burning insistence.

It was impossible that Moriarty could have escaped without even a single mark on his body. The blast of the explosion had been enough to fling Sherlock through a glass door. Moriarty too must have been impacted by the detonation. Rendered unconscious or crippled by the debris, someone would have come to his aid, would rushed him to a doctor. And they would still have him there, be watching to ensure that he was well cared for. Right? Right?

But there was a small part of his mind that was not choosing to agree, that could not accept that he had maybe won, maybe beaten Moriarty at his game. Impossible. It told him. Moriarty is smarter than that.

_But he's human. He's as capable of error as I._

_Or am I?_

_I know you are. You have your weakness, and I will find it._

Moriarty scowled as he disappeared back into the black. Sherlock could not help but smile triumphantly as he easily cast away the inner demon of his mind. He was far more powerful, now, without the morphine, without the guilt weighing down on him.

A faint knock on the door shook Sherlock from his thoughts. Glancing upwards revealed Molly Hooper standing in the doorframe, a smile curving the edges of her tiny lips. She looked mousier than usual, small and insignificant.

"Hi." Her high-pitched voice came out soft and timid as she noticed Sherlock staring.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, his brows furrowing as he wondered what in the world she was doing in his hospital room, looking more fragile than usual. She always worked so diligently in the mortuary so what would bring her here…but of course. He sighed inwardly. This, he did not need.

She slowly entered the room, her steps hesitant, doubtful. Her hair was tied up, parted to the side again and her lips were coloured a deep red. His very suggestions from a time not that far away. Oh Molly. Silly, sweet, innocent Molly. She should know better especially after their last conversation had ended with him bashing her beloved Jim's sexual orientation. Hold the phone?

"I just heard about the accident," she was saying, her eyes firmly glued to the floor, "And I…well, I thought it might be nice if I came to see how you were doing, especially since I was so horrible to you last time."

Was she serious? Sherlock hoped not. He had to tread carefully around her, play her the right away. She had known Moriarty. Surely she still did. "That wasn't necessary. But it is appreciated."

Molly lifted her head hopefully, her grin more confident than before. "I'm glad. I was so worried when I heard about the…oh, hello Detective Inspector."

Sherlock cursed Lestrade inwardly as the man entered the room. He seemed surprised as he came to a halt, as if he had only just realized Molly's presence. "Sorry. I didn't…I'll come back later, shall I?"

"No, it's alright. I'm sure whatever it is you have to say, is very important," Molly spoke up before Sherlock could attempt to get Lestrade to leave. She smiled again at Sherlock and with a quick goodbye, scurried out of the room.

Sherlock groaned. "Fantastic."

"What?"

Should he tell Lestrade? But the chances that Molly actually knew something…no. He would stay quiet for now and hope that Molly would have some knowledge to help in the future.

"Nothing. Now, give me some good news."

Lestrade breathed deeply and shook his head. So bad news. Brilliant. "There's no sign of him Sherlock. I've contacted all the nearby clinics and they swear that no patients fitting my description have been recently admitted. I've got my team out to be extra sure, but…"

"But I've been outsmarted again. How frustrating," Sherlock added for good measure. He was not at all displeased with this recent turn of events. He need to know where Moriarty was. The thought of him wandering about somewhere reduced him to shivers. "You have to double your efforts. This man cannot be allowed to walk freely through London's streets.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sank back into the chair he had previously occupied, "I think there's something that we're not choosing to look at, something crucial."

Incredulity shot through Sherlock. For Lestrade to assume that he had overlooked something was nothing short of blasphemy. And for Lestrade to believe that he had figured out something that Sherlock had simply missed was an even greater insult to his mind. "Alright. Let's hear the incredible idea that I have missed."

"There's no reason for you to patronize," Lestrade said in defence to Sherlock's cold tone before voicing his idea. "What if he's dead?"

Laughter flooded out of Sherlock's lips after a brief pause. "And that…that's your brilliant idea? Oh Lestrade, you are amazing."

"I never said that it was brilliant," Lestrade retorted, looking extremely irritated now as Sherlock's condescending attempt to humiliate him. "I only meant to point out that we haven't discussed the possibility that Moriarty is dead."

"And so you believed that I had not considered the idea."

Lestrade remained silent, as if afraid to prompt Sherlock's infamous fury.

"The thought crossed my mind, but I did not voice it."

Sherlock's reply left Lestrade more bothered than relieved, "You always voice everything. You love sticking countless possibilities into people's faces. Why not this time?"

A knowing smile flittered across Sherlock's face as he sat up straighter. He lifted his chin, supporting it with his hands, which were pressed, palms together, as if in prayer. "Because it was not worth considering. As possible as you believe it could be, I cannot help but know with undeniable certainty that Moriarty is alive, somewhere out there, The nightmare is not over yet."

"Why do I get the sense that you actually want him to be alive?"

A hush fell over the room as Sherlock fell into deep contemplation. Lestrade knew him well, but he was wrong about this. Wasn't he?

_No, he isn't. You want me to be alive, Sherlock Holmes. You need me to be alive._

Was it the truth? Sherlock paused as Moriarty's voice faded away. Yes, it was. There was no denying it anymore, no ignoring the fact that he did indeed need the man to be alive, that he desperately wanted the man to be waiting for him to catch up. Moriarty had woken him from dreary state of boredom, had given him a frightfully interesting puzzle to work out. His intellectual equal, Moriarty was now something he needed to cling onto. To lose his equal so early in the game would be terribly devastating. Alive, he was a curse on society, but a gift to Sherlock Holmes. No, Lestrade was right. No matter how much he hated the man for what he had almost done to John, he needed him to be alive, needed Moriarty like air to breathe, needed Moriarty to kill so he could survive.

* * *

**A.N. How anti-climatic. For shame, Faith ;P**

**So, I really enjoyed writing the Lestrade/Sherlock moment as well as the Sarah/Sherlock moment just because I adore diving into the mind of our favourite detective. What about you?**

**While editing this chapter, I realized, that it may seem like the story is taking a SH/JW slash turn. Originally, when planning out the story arc, I didn't really intend to write a slash, just because I order their friendship, and feel as if Sarah and John actually do have feelings for each other? But what do you think? Should I let it stay a friendship or make it into something like love? Leave a review to let me know.**

**And on the topic of reviews ;P I hope that you'll all let me know what you think of my story thus far. I appreciate all sorts of comments, be they praise or constructive criticism. Your suggestions are what inspire me. **


	4. Chapter Three

**A.N. So…how long has it been since I last updated? *Hangs head in shame* I feel just awful, but I've been terribly busy. Half of this chapter has sat on my computer gathering dust for the past three months and then yesterday I had a stroke of inspiration and voila: Chapter three was suddenly finished. I would love to say that this now means that chapters will be flying out at a constant pace, but alas, University is not forgiving. I'm hoping to be able to put out a new chapter a week. My New Year's resolution was to finish stories I start. A new chapter is a pretty good start, no?**

**Anyways, hope you all enjoy this latest chapter in Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games!**

**Oh, and I own nothing but a simple plotline. The rest is owed to the brilliance of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the always epic Steven Moffat.**

Chapter Three:

That night, Sherlock found himself once again forced to remain confined in a hospital bed. He lay on the clean, white sheets, inhaling abnormal amounts of cleaning products. They had purified his room to such unreasonable limits. The scent was clogging his nose, dizzying his mind. He needed fresh air, some freedom, a chance to think. The infuriating Doctor Raven had been particularly annoying when he had casually ignored Sherlock's plea for liberty and Lestrade…well, Lestrade would never look at him the same again.

Standing up slowly, Sherlock used all of his accumulated skills to make his way to the door without making a breath of noise. It was well after midnight; he could be certain of that particular fact because of the tell-tale clock glowing neon on the opposite wall. Fortune could only be on his side now as he soon came to realize that the halls were devoid of any human presence. Hurriedly throwing on a blue robe hanging from a nearby rack, Sherlock took his chance to escape from his current prison.

Luck stayed with him as he went his way. Undoubtedly, heading down would not improve his chance, but perhaps to go up. The question then became: stairs or lift. Exercise or convenience? A pro and con list popped up briefly in his mind and then his direction was set.

Four floors up, he was pleased to see that his cardiovascular system was still intact. There was no sign of his lungs collapsing after a steady paced climb. He was incredibly healthy, perfectly fit. It had not been necessary for them to keep him locked up one more night. He should have been released, but at least, if it could be counted as consolation, he had found this small window of opportunity to escape the world of doctors and nurses.

The door to the roof opened easily at Sherlock's touch. How predictable. No one bothers to lock the roof. He smiled to himself as the fresh, outdoor air hit him, a cool blast that filled him with a sense of relief. His eyes fluttered shut as he breathed in deeply and walked out into the open.

It was raining, but Sherlock hardly minded the feel of the cool, wet drops coming into contact with his skin. In fact, he welcomed it as a cleansing of sorts. He stood still as the rain fell over him, the water washing away his tiredness, his emotions, the ashes of the explosion, and left him a cold, empty shell with a functioning brain. _The brain is what matters. Everything else is merely transport._

He was being reborn again, refreshed, renewed for the task at hand. And then his hands were lifting upwards, pointed towards the heavens and his head was following suite. Like a child, he opened his mouth and allowed the droplets to pass through his lips, sighing as he felt at peace with the rain. A breeze brushed past, but he couldn't feel the cold. He couldn't feel anything now.

"Are you insane?"

Sherlock's eyes opened wide as a voice penetrated his ears, an annoyingly familiar one at that. He had not heard the door open behind him, but turning around, it was impossible to ignore the presence of the nurse known as Joanna. She stood in the doorframe, looking slightly dishevelled. The result of another midnight meeting in the on-call room no doubt.

She did not appreciate the knowing grin painted across his face and with rough hands, yanked him into the cover of the stairway.

"You're ruining my fun," Sherlock pointed out as the warmth of the inside passed through him, dispelling the cold exterior.

"No, I'm ruining your chances of catching pneumonia," Joanna snapped irritably as she proceeded to drag him hastily down the steps. "I should have you admitted into a psych ward for potential suicidal tendencies."

"I can list a few people who would agree with your diagnosis, each less credible than the other."

"Don't push your luck," she whispered threateningly, not imperious to the undervaluing tone in Sherlock's voice. "I wouldn't hesitate to suggest…"

Sherlock groaned aloud, cutting the woman off. She threw him a hard glare but he didn't stand down. "Why don't you stop this ridiculous banter? You obviously have somewhere…better to be and I am perfectly capable of caring for myself. Let's consider this to be an agreement of sorts. You keep my escapade a secret and I will not divulge the latest chapter in your own 'hot' affair."

The look Joanna bestowed on him was one of utmost abhorrence. She came to a complete halt a step down from where Sherlock stood. Already a good head shorter than Sherlock, the difference in height was even more noticeable. Sherlock's smug smile vanished slightly nonetheless as Joanna assumed a powerful front. "You listen to me, Mr Sherlock Holmes. My life has been a hellhole of abuse and hate, and it took me forever to find the courage to escape it. Now, I've found something to be hopeful for, something to be happy about and I won't let you take that away from me. You can play your little mind games, stab at people's hearts with your sharp words, but I won't let them hurt me. You're not worth my time." Her features softened slightly as the words left her mouth. She chuckled softly, the sound tinged with melancholy, "You know; I don't hate you, Mr Holmes. I pity you."

"Pity me?" Sherlock scoffed instantly. Her words had bounced off him harmlessly. He did not care if she had overcome obstacles or if she had finally found her silver-lined cloud. But to hear her say she pitied him was taking it one step too far. "_This_ isn't worth my time." He retorted before brushing past her.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him on his way. He turned and found himself suddenly the victim of the height disadvantage. "Let go of me." He attempted to shake her off, but she was resistant.

"I know your kind, Mr Holmes," she said, kindness evident in her voice, "You push people away, keep yourself at a distance to avoid getting hurt. It's a defence mechanism, but it's faulty. I've been down the road of hurt and all I can say is getting hurt is…getting hurt is worth knowing you have people who care for you, people who love you. You're still young; there's still time."

"Thanks for going all psychiatrist on me, but you do not know me," Sherlock whispered in a low, dangerous voice before storming away.

"I'm serious, Sherlock Holmes. You need someone or you're going to go mad." Her voice echoed after him as he reached the end of the flight of stairs and banged open the door to the second floor. Once in the secluded hallway, he paused to take a deep breath and then leaned his head, exhausted, against the wall.

He was breathing heavily now, his heart pounding anxiously against his ribcage. So many emotions coursed through his body, pulsing through his veins and arteries. Damn people and their frequent need to evaluate him. _Freak! Psycopath! Sociopath! World's Only Living Heart Donor!_ And damn them for their overpowering attempts to understand him. _Abused as a child. Mentally disturbed. Jealousy. A genius with no possible equals._ Well he had finally found an equal, an adversary to keep his mind sharp and he would not allow them to judge him for it.

Sherlock knew that he was a different species of man., could feel the rough divide between him and the others, but it had never bothered him before, should not be bothering him now.

And yet, his heart was still beating fiercely in his chest and something was threatening to spill over in the corner of his eye. _No!_ He did not want these emotions, did not want to be drawn back into the abyss, but he was falling anyway.

Over an hour Sherlock remained, back against the wall, his eyes closed tight. He breathed deep, but there was not enough air to destroy the pain in his chest. He wanted it to be a heart attack, but it wasn't. So he sat there, working his mind to reason through the illogicalness of his running emotions until the pain, finally, subsided. Only when he had finally pushed away the weakness of feeling did he begin to make his way to his room. It took him another two hours to fall asleep and when he did, he dreamt of Moriarty.

Sherlock was upset, no, furious with himself when he awoke. Light had penetrated the room through the thin white curtains and Sherlock was temporarily blinded. As his eyes slowly adjusted, his anger continued to build. His dreams had been haunted by Moriarty and he had hardly slept. And now, he felt the exhaustion weighing down on him. He had let that woman get to him, that damn nurse, and he was suffering because of it. But she had been wrong, was still wrong. She didn't know him, could never know him. No one would ever know him. He didn't even know himself. He was a complex puzzle to the entire world and that include him, personally. How could anyone have any hope of understanding him when he could not even understand himself? It was an unsolvable problem.

His pondering time over the incomprehensible was cut short as his room was suddenly invaded by the ill-mannered doctor Raven. He did look far cheerier than he had the day before, Sherlock was curious to see. He first linked it to a wonderful night of love-making with the philosophizing nurse Joanna. However, if that was not the cause, it no doubt held some relation to Nurse Joanna in some other manner. A right ol' chat they must have had after their night of passion. But he did not voice these opinions. He valued freedom more than vengeance.

"Your release papers have been signed," he announced unnecessarily, "You're free to go." The word 'free' rang welcomingly in Sherlock's ear and he could not help but smile. Raven noticed, but said nothing. They were both avoiding aggravating the other, neither wanting to extend their sour encounters. "I am also obligated to tell you that if you feel as though you are suffering at any point in the next few days that you should have it checked asap."

Sherlock nodded once to show his understanding, but no words left his mouth. Raven said no more and quickly exited the room, relieving the tensions of the past.

And now Sherlock was grinning broadly, maybe even idiotically, but it could not be helped. All worries of the previous night seemed to just melt away as he could finally relax in the knowledge that he was no longer bound to this hellhole. Finally: freedom.

He leapt up excitedly, all weariness forgotten for the moment. On the edge of his bed was a pair of jeans, a blue shirt and his faithful coat. He smiled appreciatively. Mrs Hudson: saintly woman you are.

It took him a few minutes to change and then he was out of the room at a run as it struck him that he was alone. And what an odd thought to strike him. True, everyone else in the hallway was standing in pairs or larger groups…but still. He was used to being alone, had spent many years on his own. So why was this bothering him now? Why did him being alone seem so…abnormal?

"Sherlock! Good, I didn't miss you."

Lestrade was dashing towards him, looking ever so slightly out of breath. He paused and took a few seconds to regain his composure. Sherlock watched him, amused. What a coincidence that he should show up now.

"Can I help you, Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. I thought you might be interested in seeing something."

"Maybe later," Sherlock shrugged him off easily as it struck him that there was something more pressing at hand. "I was just on my way to see John."

"Doctor Watson can wait. You'll want to see this."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Really?"

"Yeah. I want to show you the pool."

Lestrade had not been required to say another word. Sherlock had quickly followed him out of the hospital, feeling guilty for leaving John without knowing how he was faring. Still he could not help but feel the need to rush to the scene of the crime, to discover possible evidence of Moriarty's presence.

Now, standing in front of the pool, Sherlock felt a sense of unwanted anxiousness cruising through him as he waited for the truth to be revealed. The drive to this point had been devastating to say the least with Lestrade confirming the absence of Moriarty from any hospital or medical centre. But now, surrounded by memories of that explosive night, he could hope that some truth would shine through the darkness.

The smell of burning was the first thing to meet him as he entered the building. It penetrated his nostrils, an acrid smell that made him want to gag. Lestrade gazed at him knowingly as his own face crinkled in disgust. "I would have had the cleaning crew in, but I figured you would prefer to see it in its original condition."

"I appreciate your kind consideration," Sherlock spoke gratefully, though it was difficult to determine if he was being sarcastic or not. "I would ask where to go…" He did not need to finish the sentence.

The two of them walked together towards the main oil area. Glass stilled littered the floor and there were some blood stains too, marking the place where he had been knocked into an unconscious stupor. A few feet from there was another stain, darker than the one before. He shuddered involuntarily. John had lay here, only days ago, deathlike. His mind was possessed by a sudden image. He wiped it away.

Before Lestrade could comment on his obvious distress, Sherlock moved into the room where the bomb had exploded. Glass crackled as he tread quickly over the debris and into chamber where it had all taken place. There was an awful stench present there too, but it was more than just burnt materials, something far more sinister, something dead. "Do you smell that?"

"What? The ash? Look, I'm…"

"No. No." Sherlock interjected impatiently. "Something else. Deep breath, Lestrade. It's easier than thinking."

Lestrade glowered at the tall man but let the pointing insult pass without retort. He breathed again to no avail. Crunching his face, confused, he made another attempt and then like man finding enlightenment, his eyes flashed open to their furthest reach, his mouth falling wide open. "Oh my God!"

Sherlock nodded. "Something is decomposing." He glanced around quickly, examining the room, scanning it from wall to wall. There was a crater in the floor from where the bomb had gone off, but the supporting structure of the room was still somehow intact. Part of the pool had also been blown away and water dripped off the ceilings like raindrops that linger on after a storm.

What else? There was a crimson stain on the floor. John had been shot there. And a bit more, closer to the door. And suddenly a scene followed in his mind as he retraced Moriarty's steps:

_The bomb is seconds away from being deployed and Moriarty knows what is coming. While Sherlock and John are distracted he begins to hurry to the door closest to where he stands, but he is not nearly quick enough. The bomb explodes and he comes into contact with the wall. There is a crack as his arm breaks at the shoulder. He's accustomed to pain though and concentrates on getting away, forcing himself to escape. He slides along the wall as he goes, beginning to lose consciousness as he realizes that something has embedded itself in his calf. He needs to make it to the door, needs to get out before the commotion calls attention. His hand finally finds the door handle as part of the ceiling begins to crumble overhead. His hand is blooded from where at his wound, but he does not stop…_

Sherlock walked out that same door now, intrigued by the sticky red liquid, the blood of his enemy. It makes him mortal. Lestrade watched him from a distance. There was a patch of blood out in the hall and then tiny drops trailed off towards the exit. And so the scene continued:

_Moriarty collapses on the ground. To the left he can see Sherlock and Watson lying still on the ground. He smiles cruelly. This is just the beginning. And then he faints. Seconds pass and then two people emerge from the shadows. They delicately lift their boss off the ground and carry him out, minutes before the police and firemen arrive, his blood dripping behind him as he goes…_

"Well, what have you got?"

Lestrade had come up beside him, expectantly waiting for the detective's insight. He pointed at the blood on the floor, a soft sight fleeting his pursed lips. "Moriarty?"

There was no response from Sherlock. He needed to focus on the other mystery now. Someone, or something, was rotting in this place, and it had to be found before it outlived its usefulness. He sniffed the air, but that rotting smell was not present there. The pool room, then. He brushed past Lestrade's impatient stance and the scent him again like a tidal wave.

Upward glancing made him realize that part of the ceiling had indeed been lost. Water dripped on his face, but he wiped it away with a distracted hand. There was a small balcony up to the left. And to the right? Yes, another one. The snipers no doubt had taken aim from there. A grimace. Where had those snipers gone?

There were stairs nearby, he noticed now. He rushed over, Lestrade following close behind. The steps he took three at a time, his long strides prompted by a desperate need to discover the origin of the stench. The strength of the smell was increasing the further up he went. It had to be the snipers. But why?

The door to the balcony opened easily at his touch, and the smell that met him was overpowering.

Lestrade gasped behind him as his eyes fell on the corpses splayed out before them. Three bodies, all male, lay before them, dead, if not more. Sherlock's piercing stare was fixated as a disbelieving gaze captured his face. "Oh, he is good."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was exasperated and with perfectly good reason. The bodies spread across the floor were more than just dead. They had already begun the decomposition process and were now more skeletal than skin and flesh. The remaining skin was ashen grey and pulled tight on the bones where it hadn't already completely disappeared. Maggots and flies infested the dark crevices where the decay had been intensely destructive.

"He purposely sped up the process…but why?" Sherlock pulled a napkin from his coat pocket and pressed it against his nose as he bent down. His eyes stung slightly as he lessened the distance between him and the corpses. They were all dressed similarly in black sweaters and pants. How predictable! A closer examination revealed no pockets.

"Brilliant," he whispered and with one last glance stood, "They've all been shot, one single bullet to the heart it would seem. You'll need to get these to Anderson or Molly."

"Right." It dawned on Sherlock at that moment that Lestrade was horribly disturbed by the decaying bodies but before he could prompt a confession from the DI, Lestrade took back control of the situation. "I'll make the calls. Do you think there are any more bodies here?"

"Definitely."

Good. I'll let you check those out while I get the team over." And before Sherlock could question him, Lestrade was gone back out the door.

Sherlock frowned as he watched the man leave. He wanted to question, to know why the usually cool, reserved detective inspector was traumatized to the point where he would allow Sherlock to investigate without any supervision. Like a child gaining independence from his parents, Sherlock was especially happy to be allowed his artistic freedom, but the mystery of Lestrade was just as biting. But first things first.

The other balcony revealed five more decomposing bodies. It took all of Sherlock's self-control to not gag on the spot as the putrid scent infiltrated his nostrils. He was relieved now that Lestrade was not there. Who knew how he would have reacted to this sight. A small blessing.

At a quick glance, Sherlock assumed that the crimes were one hundred per cent similar to the others. Not that that prevented him from leaning in for a closer look nonetheless. And it was a good thing that he did. What he noticed then sent him reeling excitedly. Something was not the same and it made the game just that much more fascinating. Four of the guards, like the others, had been shot through the heart. But one had been shot through the head. But why?

Grabbing his blackberry, he snapped a few shots for his own means and the began to observe the decaying corpses with detailed precision. The gun shot was on the right side of his temple and was definitely a result of a close ranged hit. Moving down the body, he noted with interest how the rifle had fallen to the right of the body, in close proximity to the right hand. And then it was all too evident.

"Suicide!"

Lestrade found it difficult to accept the news. He had refused to go to the scene to see for himself and grimaced when Sherlock showed him the photos. "Maybe it was made to look like a suicide. We shouldn't just assume that it was a suicide attempt. The others weren't."

"We shouldn't assume that it wasn't suicide either, just because the others might not have been," Sherlock argued, still thrilled by this newest turn of events.

"Fine. Let's say that it was suicide. Why would he kill himself? For the fun of it, perhaps?

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. Habitually, his fingers lifted to his temple as his mind began racing with possibilities. His eyes shut briefly as different scenarios flashed before him. He picked at the few that were most probable while the others were stored in his back-up file. The probable soon began to organize themselves in order from most ordinary to least original. And then he had it. His eyes flew back open, triumphant.

Lestrade just shook his head in disbelief, mistaking the wide, grin on Sherlock's lips to mean that he had solved this particular issue. "You can't possibly…"

"Not quite. There are a myriad of reasons."

"Such as?"

Impatience flew like daggers out of Sherlock's eyes. "I would prefer fine tuning the possibilities before giving you a reason…"

"You don't know!" Lestrade admonished, "Just admit it."

"He'll never do that. Freak has too much ego."

Sherlock could only frown as Sargent Donovan appeared suddenly in his line of vision, followed by Anderson and a team of police officers.

"Always a pleasure, Sally."

Sally refused to respond to his forced pleasantry as she focused her gaze on Lestrade. "Where are they?"

"Upstairs," Sherlock replied before Lestrade could, forcing Sally to turn her attention to him, "Both balconies. Beware. Not for the weak of heart."

Sally glowered. "Implying something, freak?"

"Never, Sally." He would never admit it aloud, but he adored the rivalry that he shared with the dark-skinned policewoman. He could hardly remember how it happened, but Sally had never been fond of him or his methods. Well, bully for her.

"You better not have contaminated them."

Anderson's voice was nauseatingly annoying to the ear. His face was no better to the eyes. Their rivalry was far less amusing. Perhaps if Anderson was not so ignorant or if he had even a shred of intelligence…

Sherlock allowed the snide comment to slide by and Anderson stormed away, agitated. Donovan humphed loudly before retreating as well.

"You're very good at the isolation game."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, the sarcasm thoroughly evident now and then, because he simply could not help himself, "So, what it is with you and decomposing bodies?"

Lestrade remained silent, but his face spoke words enough. His mouth was pulled into a thin line and his eyes were opened wide. He was a million miles away. Sherlock could not help but find himself extremely fascinated by this mysterious piece of Lestrade's past. It took Lestrade a few seconds before he finally could bring himself back to the present. "It's none of your goddamn business."

"Well, if that isn't your most depressing answer, I don't know what is. You're no fun."

Lestrade glared at him disbelievingly, "It's not a game, Sherlock. do you really have no respect for people's lives? Don't answer that." He rubbed his temple fiercely, as if trying to ward off a coming headache. "We don't need you here anymore. Go home, get some rest, and I'll call you if we get any news." He did not wait for Sherlock to respond, and hurried after his team.

Sherlock did not go home. It hadn't seemed like the appropriate decision. He did not want to face Mrs Husdon, did not want to face an empty apartment. He wanted to make things right with at least one person; which is exactly why he ordered the cab to St. Bart's. It seemed, oddly enough, like the right place to be.

Nurse Joanna the Analyser saw him as he entered the building and rushed over. Sherlock did not notice her until it was too late to evade her. "Don't tell me you got hurt again?" she said, the concern in voice strangely sincere. The anger she had previously felt for him was completely gone.

Damned woman. "No," he replied curtly, and brushed past her. But the woman was persistent and followed him as he made his way to the lift. "I'm really not hurt," he insisted as he waited for a lift to take him away.

It came before she had a chance to reply and he gratefully stepped in before she could. But that wasn't good enough, it seemed.

She followed him and then hurriedly shut the doors before he could escape. "What number?"

"You have got to be teasing me?" Sherlock muttered under his breath. "I am not doing this."

"Four it is." She leaned forward to press it, taking Sherlock by complete surprise. "He's awake."

The lift moved upwards and Sherlock stumbled slightly as it caught him off guard. "Who's awake?" It was uncanny, the way she smiled as if she knew all about him, as if she knew she had left an impression on him. Frustrating woman: she should not have gotten through, would never get through again.

"Don't pretend you don't know," Joanna chided as the lift arrived at its requested destination, "You need him."

Sherlock didn't reply as the doors released him. He rushed out before she could stop him. Damn, damn woman. People should learn to mind their own business. Especially her. She had no right to pry in places that were of no concern to her.

"_Sound familiar dear."_

"_Shove off."_

He wasn't like that. He pried because he had to, assumed only because reason led him to know that his assumptions were indeed hard fact. He never guessed; it was not for him to guess. But it was for him to know. He could not solve a case if he did not know how people operated. But she, she had no right to question him, to deem him…needy. Oh, the dilemma!

The door to John's room was opened and from his viewpoint, Sherlock could clearly see John reading the paper, while Sarah sat beside him, reading a Jane Austen classic.

_The perfect couple._ The thought ran through Sherlock and it was laughable. They looked content though and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to simply destroy their relaxed atmosphere. He could come back later.

"Sherlock?"

In the process of turning, Sherlock froze as John's voice reached him. Slowly, he returned to his first position, his expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. John's eyes were focused on the tall, pale figure standing uncomfortably still in the empty hallway. Sarah too stared at him, her book folded neatly on their lap.

"Umm…hi…I, uh…well, I…" Sherlock stammered through an explanation, unable to release a proper one while John watch him, thoroughly amused. Sherlock cleared his throat. _Bumbling fool_. "That is to say…I was coming to make sure everything was okay and seeing you occupied…

"Decided to leave? On account of a paper?" John mused, "Barging in has never really been a problem for you in the past."

"True." Sherlock was caught. He felt awkward, anxious even, in the situation he had created. His mind searched for some sort of excuse to disappear, but nothing came. With no other option, he moved forward and entered the room, a decision that did nothing to alleviate the discomfort knowing at his insides. "Hi."

"Hello." There was an uncommonly broad grin spreading across John's features, humoured as he was by Sherlock's inept demeanour. But through the smile, Sherlock could see the pain trying to hide behind the mask of joy. There were dark bags under his eyes, and lines creased his forward. His broken arm lay beside him, no longer supported by a sling. And he could see blood stains, faint on the sheets, reminders of where the bullet had pierced his skin.

Sarah followed his gaze and sighed. "They should be coming to clean the wound soon."

John nodded, and as he did, a flicker of pain invaded his expression. He groaned and closed his eyes. Sarah reached automatically for his hand and squeezed it tight. John's eyes fluttered open at her touch and he smiled gratefully. She returned the gesture, but as she looked to Sherlock, he was struck by the wearied sadness in her own eyes.

"You know, I could use some coffee," Sarah spoke suddenly, casting her gaze downwards, as if ashamed of having the great detective catch her in a state of weakness. "Would you mind watching John while I go? I'll only be a moment."

A single nod. The scene playing out before him made him queasy. He couldn't understand why…or maybe he could. Guilt was a pain in the arse.

With a quick thank you, Sarah fled the room. The loss of her presence brought silence back and the awkwardness increased. Sherlock peeked at the vacant seat but could not bring himself to move to it. He looked back to John who was staring at him, trying to analyse him. His furrowed brow was one worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes himself. Poor John. He would fail nonetheless, as he always did, to properly observe people.

"So?" John uttered finally, breaking the silence.

"So?"

John chuckled softly. "You don't have to wait with me. I'm a big boy."

Sherlock sighed. "John…I…" It was harder, so very much harder than he had expected it would be. The word was on the tip of his tongue, but it was refusing to flee into the open air, to become heard. "Look, I…what I mean to say is…I…"

"Sherlock," John interrupted the consulting detective as he struggled over his words, "You don't have to say anything."

"But I do." Sherlock took the empty seat now, placing himself closer to the army doctor. He watched him carefully. Why wasn't John more upset with him? He should be yelling, cursing at him for acting irrationally, for putting him in this state. But John's expression was calm, non-expectant. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Accept."

John shrugged. "I've seen better men sustain worse injuries than this. I've seen the best men die. I'm alive. You're alive. What is there for me not to accept?"

"You're worse off than me," Sherlock offered, disappointed that the doctor's face made no chance.

"A blessing," John replied without hesitation. He paused for a second, suspiciously scrutinizing the man before him. "Did you…do you really expect me to hate you for not having been shot dead?"

Sherlock didn't reply; he didn't have to. John shook his head in utter disbelief. "You want me to hate you?"

"No."

"But you expected me to?" John repeated and then the realization dawned on him, the implicit confession shocking him more than the previous one. "You blame yourself, don't you?"

Again, Sherlock refused to reply. He was afraid of what weight his words could carry, of what disastrous emotions they might evoke. Remaining silent was far better an option.

"I can't believe it," John was shaking his head furiously, "You can't blame yourself for what happened…"

"Shouldn't," Sherlock interjected.

"Pardon?"

"Shouldn't blame yourself. Not can't. I am more than capable of placing blame where I want. The phrase you were aiming for was should not blame yourself."

John was incredulous. If he was not confined to his bed, he would have gladly strangled the detective and his infernal mastery of the English language. "Grammatically correct or not, you knew what I was getting at. I don't blame you and I don't want you blaming yourself. The only person to blame is Moriarty."

And then staying silent suddenly did not seem like the best idea for Sherlock. "I led you into a trap. He used you because of your proximity to me. How is that not my fault?"

"Stop it!" John yelled unexpectedly. In doing so, he trespassed the very thin line before sustainable anger and overexerting rage and his face screwed up in apparent pain. He swore under his breath as a he let out a loud gasp. His good hand gripped at the wound in his side.

Helplessness clawed at Sherlock's innards as he watched John in his agony. He wished for some power to do something, to help in some way, but his mind failed him in this instant. It was out of his hands, but he could not accept that. His hands clenched tightly in his lap as they itched to become useful, to do anything that could alleviate the pain.

"You alright?" Words were the best he could do at this moment. "Do you need…"

"You don't have to do anything," John answered, though his mouth was still pulled back in a tight grimace, "I'm fine…really."

"Liar."

"Takes one to know one."

Sherlock's gaze remained hard, but ever so slowly, a smile crept across his tight features and he chuckled appreciatively. John too managed to smile and laughter soon flooded from his own lips. Ease overcame the awkwardness and Sherlock gladly allowed himself to relax in this new atmosphere. The words once stuck on his tongue were suddenly ungluing themselves. He paused for a second, surprising himself as after a deep breath they finally hit the surface. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to…wait." You apologized? You actually just apologized?"

Sherlock frowned. "I made a mistake. I was careless. It won't happen again."

"You're owing up to a mistake," the incredulity in John's voice continued to rise, "What's happened to you?"

Sherlock paused. _I came to close to the fire and got burned. I lowered my defences and he found a weakness._ "It was a near fatal mistake. You could have died. I could have died."

"Partly my fault, though," John added, "I should have been more careful that night, but I didn't see it coming. It's funny. I saw him and recognized him from St. Bart's, but he looked so different…all dressed up. I think I even said hi first and then…" John's voice faltered and he stopped as the memories flowed in his mind. He took a deep breath. "And then he pulled out his gun and forced me to put on the explosives and the jacket and then the earpiece." John shook involuntarily as he finished.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock insisted, realizing how heavily the memories were weighing down the on the good doctor, "As long as you're doing well, it hardly matters." He glanced now at the door and a slight frown creased his forehead. Where on earth was Sarah? She couldn't possibly be still looking for a cup of coffee "Give me a second."

Striding silent towards the door, Sherlock emerged into the hallway just as a figure hurried around a corner. Smiling to himself, Sherlock followed to see Sarah standing down a corridor, no coffee in hand. She looked ashamed at having been found eavesdropping and refused to meet the detective's gaze.

"What? No coffee?"

She shook her head. "They were out," she explained, glancing up now. "But you were both talking when I came up; I didn't want to bother you."

Sherlock nodded, not believing her well-crafted story for a second. "Of course you did." She was a different breed of woman he had not encountered before. It was impressive to see how compatible she and John really were. "Thank you."

"Of course." Sarah seemed incredibly relieved that her lie had worked, falling easily into Sherlock's own falsehood.

Sherlock paused. She was pleased with her delusions, but he was not. "No. I mean, thank you." He put a heavier emphasis on his gratitude this time, breaking yet another one of his usual habits.

Sarah sighed resignedly as she recognized defeat. "I had to. he wanted to talk to you, and you wouldn't have done with me there."

"Yes…well…look how well that worked out."

"Right. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure that you didn't spend the entire time sitting in silence. Now, you should probably get back to him," Sarah insisted.

Sherlock shook his head. No, he had said what he had set out to say and John needed Sarah now more than him. Besides, he wanted to escape the hospital before he wound up spending another night in its dismal cleanliness. "I should be leaving. But I'm sure John would want your company."

The two of them went together, although Sarah seemed suspicious of Sherlock's real reasons for wanting to leave. Sherlock said no more to her, not knowing what could be said and not wanting to prompt conversation. John seemed pleased enough to see the two of them enter but disappointment creased his forehead when he realized that Sherlock was not intending to stay. But when he opened his mouth to try to convince Sherlock otherwise, he was quickly cut off.

"I'm afraid, I really must be going John. Mrs Hudson is expecting me," he insisted, "But I'll be back soon and I'm certain you'll be released before long."

John still did not look content but said nothing against him. He knew Sherlock Holmes well enough to not push him. And so with a quick farewell, Sherlock hurried out of the hospital and back into civilization.

Mrs Hudson ensconced Sherlock in rather tight embrace when he appeared on her door step. Inches shorter than him, her head pressed into the middle of his chest, her bushy hair not even tickling the tip of his chin. Sherlock grinned broadly as her small arms wound around his back and held him close. Not just anyone could get away with this intimate of a hug, but good Mrs Hudson was an exception to many rules. Like a mother, she was always watching out for him, giving him everything he could ever need. This was the least he could do for her.

"Oh Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she finally released him, "You had me in such a panic. Shame on you."

"It could hardly have been helped, Mrs Hudson. But I'm fine," he reassured her as she dragged him into the house.

She pulled him right into her apartment where the sweet scent of scones penetrated Sherlock's nostrils, provoking his salivating glands into action. It smelt like home, felt like warmth and comfort. He sighed. After a few days in a hospital, this seemed like heaven. "Now you sit yourself down, love. I have a large supper ready for you and you will eat every bite. But just this once…"

"I'm not your housekeeper," Sherlock chimed in simultaneously, earning him a teasingly wicked eye from Mrs Hudson. She chided him with a flick of her tongue and a playful slap on his unharmed arm before hurrying into the kitchen. Sherlock was still grinning as he settled himself in one of Mrs Hudson's plush red chairs. He sighed deeply as a feeling of calm relaxation rolled over him. He allowed his head fall back against the chair and closing his eyes, took a deep, fulfilling breath. Paradise on earth. For once in his life, he was glad to sit in silence in the comfort of a warm home, feeling safe. Moriarty was miles away and miles away he would stay…for now, at least.

"Nodding off, dearie? You must be exhausted."

Sherlock's eyes flew open as Mrs Hudson re-entered the den, carrying a tray laden with two steaming mugs of coffee, a plate of scones and two sandwiches. She placed them gently on the centre table before retreating back into the kitchen and returning once more with two other trays, each burdened with a single plate

"I'm fine Mrs Hudson, thank you," Sherlock spoke gratefully as she grabbed him a sandwich and a mug and lay them out on one of the new trays. She passed it to him carefully and then reached for the scones, sliding a good pile onto his plate. He chucked appreciatively at her gesture as she then set on filling up her own.

"The coffee's black, two sugars, just as you like it," she told him, smiling to herself as she played the hostess, "And there's cake in the oven too: chocolate mocha."

"You're far too kind." He took the coffee first and took a deep sip, taking pleasure in the hot liquid as it burned the back of his throat. It made him feel alive, more alive than he had felt since completing Moriarty's puzzle.

In good company, the two ate, and it was more than Sherlock had ever eaten in one sit down, far too much. But he could not say no, not with Mrs Hudson watching his every bite. Their conversation peaked and waned like waves rolling up and down in tide. It turned especially rough, though, as Mrs Hudson began to question him on the state of a certain John Watson.

"Horrible thing that happened to the Doctor. What with him being strapped to all those explosives," she shuddered at the thought, "How is he?"

"He's fine," Sherlock replied curtly. He did not want to retreat into this dark space, did not want to return to thinking about the incident. For a few brief hours, he only wanted to fall into forgetful bliss. But Mrs Hudson was persistent.

"The poor dear. What happened, Sherlock?"

"Mrs Hudson, I would prefer not to discuss in any detail the events of that night," he told her firmly, yet gently.

His tone of finality was well understood and silence followed his statement, an agonizing silence that proceeded to grow in tension until Mrs Hudson broke through it with her razor sharp knife of hospital manners.

A new topic broached, their conversation continued until their plates lay empty before them, a feat only reached through Mrs Hudson's persistence that everything be devoured. Then the large mocha chocolate – or chocolate mocha – cake came forward, drawn straight from the oven. Its aroma quickly filled the den in such gorgeous smells that sent Sherlock's mind into a lull. Her attempt to force feed him failed, however, as Sherlock swore that he could not possibly even imagine managing another bite.

"Well, if you're certain." The dangerously large cutting knife in her hand carved into the cake, producing a ridiculously hefty sliver of chocolaty goodness. "There. For later." And then she cut another piece. "And this is for Dr Watson. I'm sure it'll cheer him up."

"Again, your kindness knows no bounds," Sherlock bestowed her with the compliment as she wrapped up the pieces.

Her cheeks reddened as they always did when Sherlock extolled her good features and patted him again on the sleeve. "Anything for you, my dear. Now, you take this," She handed off the container, which Sherlock gripped tightly in his skeletal fingers. "And you should be off to bed. You've entertained this old lady long enough."

Sherlock entered his apartment, 221B, and again felt a rush of security and belonging rush through his veins. he glanced around, deeply appreciative suddenly of the familiar contours of this homely setting. The cakes, he placed on the coffee table, which was already overtaken by a number of papers. His gaze moved around the room again, this time coming to rest on the far walls which still held the brunt of his research on Moriarty's game.

BOMBER CONNECTION

The words screamed out at him. That first explosion had sent him reeling into this case. He looked at the windows. They were still boarded up, still needed to be fitted for new panes. There was a lot that still needed to be fixed, and the case…The wall glared at him again. It had been solved, hadn't it? He had discovered the mastermind, yes. But he had not apprehended him.

"Moriarty," Sherlock whispered the name as his fingers traced the word on the wall. Suddenly, the calm that he had achieved was violently whipped away by a cold anger that gnawed at his very essence. Gripped by frustration, he began to frantically tear down his wall of clues and evidence, ripping down newspaper articles of that fateful day 20 years ago, photos of that dead reality star, lab prints detailing the tell-tale poison, until the wall lay in pieces at his feet and all that remained was that dreaded name: MORIARTY.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock breathed heavily as the anger slowly dissipated, leaving him cold and empty.

_I have been invaluably informed that I don't have one._

He was a shell. A shell with a genius mind. Everything else was just transport.

_But we both know that's not quite true._

A sideways glance at the chair John often frequented. No, it wasn't quite true. He did care, but the extent of his caring was, quite frankly, limited. Better not to love. Better to achieve invincibility.

_But getting hurt is worth knowing you have people who care for you, people who love you._

_Shut up, Joanna!_

It was too must pressing on him, pulling him down, down into the unfathomable depths. He needed sleep, yes, a chance to escape this world, a chance tragedy in his own fantastical one.

Sherlock found his way, slowly, to the couch where he had often found comfort in times of indecision and darkness. The smiley face still stared at him from where he had painted it only a few days prior. He allowed his fingers to trace the bullet holes. He had shot the wall because it had had it coming, because he had been bored. And then the explosion had shattered everything, had blown him from his unbelievably drearily dull reverie. And now…now he was anything but bored.

The cushion softened his fall as he collapsed onto the couch, still fully dressed. He was too drained to attempt to rectify that particular issue. And so he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to seep in.

**A.N. So, what did you all think? Too OOC for Sherlock? I tried hard with the scene between him and John. At times I was really pleased with it, and then at times I hated every word that I wrote. Oh well. Let me know what you though with a little comment. I love your opinions as long as they're respectful and constructive. They inspire me to continue, I swear, they do. **

**Love and God Bless,**

**Faith **

**XO**


	5. Chapter Four

**A.N. My deepest, deepest apologies for waiting 9 months before another post. What with school and working on my own novel, I've been unable to commit to this story. And for that I am so very, very sorry. I can't promise to be any better in maintaining a steady flow of production, but I can promise that I will finish this story and all my others. **

**And with that, onto the latest chapter.**

Chapter Four:

A week passed, and John remained in the hospital, his health progressing with every day that passed. He was regaining his strength, little by little and his attending continued to express pleasure at John's quick recovery. The sixth day following Sherlock's release from the hospital, found him striding right back into the same institution he had fought to escape. For the past five days, at the exact same time, he had made his way into St. Bart's to visit the healing doctor. He too had been extremely content to see that his friend was not suffering too much for his foolish mistake.

Nurse Joanna was standing at her usual post near the entrance, a position she had taken to for the past five days, just to be able to run into Sherlock. She was still a pesky annoyance trying to force him into a different lifestyle, but Sherlock would be lying if he said he wanted her to leave him alone. The woman was growing on him, ever so slightly, and her presence was becoming more amusing than irritating.

"Morning, love." She was quick to jump at him as he entered the room.

"Joanna," Sherlock echoed, bestowing her with a tiny grin, "And how are we today?"

"Brilliant," she responded. And, in fact, she did seem to have a certain glow her.

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow curiously as he looked her up and down, "What happened to you, then?"

"I'm sure you can guess."

"Oh yes; I can." He reached for her hand and held it up, his eyes frozen on the fourth finger. "Raven proposed, and you accepted. You old fox," he added teasingly, "Good to see he isn't going cheap on the engagement ring. That would have been mildly selfish."

"You knave," she chided, slipping her hand out of his grasp, her cheeks reddening, "It's a beautiful ring and he's a beautiful man."

Sherlock chuckled softly, "Well, I should be off. John's waiting."

"Don't you want to hear how he proposed?" Joanna demanded as he walked off. She hurried after him as he waited for a lift.

"No, afraid not. However, I would be interested in knowing when the baby is due." Sherlock stepped into the lift as it arrived before turning to face a shell-shocked Joanna. He pressed the number four and gave her the smallest wave goodbye as the door shut, like a barrier falling between them.

Sarah was sitting with John when Sherlock entered into the room. He nodded at her. "Hello, Sarah."

"Sherlock," she greeted him dryly, "You're a bit late."

"I got held back by a pregnant nurse," he explained shortly, before turning his attention to John, "How are you feeling?"

John was sitting up in bed, the day's newspaper folded out before him. his broken arm was now in a sling that tied around his shoulder. His white, pasty features from only a few days before had gone, replaced by the normal peach colour of human skin. He looked better than he had all week. "I feel fantastic."

"Good." Sherlock allowed himself a broader grin, glad to see the doctor in good spirits and good health.

"Isn't it?" John's doctor appeared in the doorway, carrying his patient's chart carefully in his hand. "Your vitals are excellent. Your wound is healing properly and everything is perfectly intact. You've healed extremely well Doctor Watson, and I think I can safely say that you'll make a full recovery without any lasting problems."

"Thank you Doctor Matthews."

The man nodded his head, sincerely happy to see his patient doing well, "My pleasure. Now, I have another piece of good news for you. Due to your amazing recovery, I see no point in holding you here any longer. I'll just have Nurse Beth check your wound one more time and then I'll sign your release papers and you will be free to go."

"Fantastic!" John was unabashedly ecstatic. No doubt, he too had grown tired of four white walls and confinement. In truth, he longed to be free to walk through London and to leave all this behind him. He glanced at Sherlock. "I hope you haven't gotten a new flatmate yet."

Sherlock shook his head, "Not at all." He wouldn't admit it, not with Matthews and Sarah in the room, but he too was ecstatic to hear that John would be returning home. His flat, for the past few days, had been far too quiet, had felt far too empty. Even after his initial return, he had taken to avoiding spending too much time in the flat, afraid of being alone with himself and with that dreaded name staring fiercely out at him from its place on the wall.

_Moriarty_. It was the only thing left in an otherwise perfectly clean room, but it was haunting, nonetheless. The day after his return, he and Mrs Hudson had ordered new windows panes and she had graciously helped him to tidy up, a feat he would have never undertaken on his own. But she had insisted on assuring that the flat was ready for John's return.

"You know, I was thinking," Sarah interjected suddenly, as the doctor left the room, "Maybe it would be better if John spent a few days at my place…"

"Why?"

Sarah did not wince at Sherlock's sharp interruption. "Because he'll need someone to take care of him while he continues to heal and I'm sure with all your responsibilities, you'll have something better to do than just sit around and make sure John is comfortable."

"Sarah," John broke in gently before Sherlock could come back with a biting retort, "Honestly, I'll be fine with Sherlock. Not that I wouldn't love to stay with you, but my legs are fine. I can walk without much trouble and my arm is not going to be a problem as long as the other stays in tack." He took her hand and squeezed it tenderly. "That way, you'll have reason to come and visit me more often."

Sarah nodded, smiling as John's words eased her mind. "Fine. You're right." She glanced at her watch and frowned. "I've got to go then. I promised I'd be in the clinic to help."

"That's alright. I'll take a cab to the flat."

"I'll wait with him," Sherlock added reassuringly, glad that he had won this battle, even if he hadn't fought it. "You be careful."

Sarah threw him in an angry stare before leaning in and kissing John on the lips. Sherlock looked away, deeply offended by outward signs of emotion. He kept his gaze averted until he heard the feet of the chair grind against the linoleum floors.

"Bye Sherlock."

"See you."

Sarah hurried out of the room before another word could be exchanged. Sherlock watched her go before turning back to John. "I'm amazed that you said no to her so quickly, John."

"You're pleased; don't deny it."

Sherlock shrugged as he leaned back against the wall. He looked ready to reply, but hesitated. In the seconds of silence that lapsed, Sherlock found himself trying to diagnose Watson's possible reasons or motives for choosing him or Sarah. There were a few that came to mind, but before he could voice them, the nurse known as Beth walked into the room.

Sherlock was ushered out as she set to work on the doctor. There were chairs out here in the hall. He claimed one, prepared to wait for John. The corridor was empty save for him and another woman sitting a few feet away. Her face was turned downwards and he could just make out the glistening tears cascading down her face. Her hands she held up to her face as if in prayer. There was a wedding band on her finger and she kept toying with it.

"Your husband?"

The woman's head shot up, her face red and blotchy. "How did you know?" she sniffed.

Sherlock merely shrugged, and then looked away, trying hard not to grin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the woman was still watching him in amazement. He loved it, loved leaving people wondering how he could have possibly know their deepest, darkest secrets.

The elevator doors rang suddenly. Gazing towards them, Sherlock worried who he would see. It surprised him then, when Molly walked into the area. As her eyes fell on him, her mouth gaped open slightly, her eyes widening.

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

"I was coming to see Doctor Matthews," she replied, the look of shock gone from her face, instead replaced by stony determination.

"Good for you." Sherlock had to admit that he was surprised by the cool edge in her tone. She seemed almost angered with him, a feeling she did not normally harbour for him. So what had he done? "You look well, Molly."

"Thank you," she said curtly before hurrying away down the hallway without another word. How strange! Most unusual. He debated calling after her, but stopped himself. It shouldn't bother him, but it did. It was not because he longed after her friendship. He did not. But it did worry him that something was possibly wrong.

He watched her retreating form, trying to gather some sense of what was wrong, but his attention was quickly compromised as Nurse Beth walked out of John's room.

"He's all set to go, love," she informed him, "I'll just go fetch Doctor Matthews and you lads will be out of here within a half hour."

She was right. Ten minutes later, they were out of the hospital, John hobbling slowly along. Doctor Matthews had offered him a cane, but John had vehemently turned him down, no doubt remembering his previous addiction to the support.

"Thanks again for waiting for me," John spoke out as they reached a vacant cab.

"Not at all."

Sherlock opened the door and waited for John to be seated before hurrying around to the other side and taking his own. "221B Baker Street," he instructed before leaning back in his seat. They took off at once, in comfortable silence that lasted a good five minutes before Sherlock prompted them into conversation.

"You didn't answer my question before."

John turned to stare at him curiously. "Which question was that?"

"The one concerning your refusal to move in with Sarah," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He couldn't help himself; he was desperately curious to know why John had chosen him and not Sarah, especially after Moriarty's cruel joke. "I would have thought that you would to escape me and my insanity," he added when John failed to reply.

John chucked softly. "I've become accustomed to you and your ways."

"Have you?" John nodded. "But that still doesn't explain why you would say no to Sarah's favourable company."

"Why is it such a big deal?" John demanded irritably. "You want to know if you won out over her? Give it a rest, Sherlock. I said no to her because I didn't want to inconvenience her."

Sherlock shook his head, not convinced. "It's more than that," he insisted, ignoring the look of exasperation in John's eyes. He puzzled over it, considering what he knew of the doctor. It was obvious that he and Sarah were in love, she would not have taken vigil by his bedside if not, not after their violent first day. And John: he talked about her far too often and visited her frequently enough for it to be at least a deep affection driving him on. So why not move in? It struck Sherlock that, for all he did know, he did not know enough about couples or lovers' quarrels to be able to draw a plausible conclusion. He could, however, guess. "Commitment issues?"

John's anger waned as surprise replaced it. "No." The answer seemed true enough, but his surprise said that Sherlock was close.

"But something…similar. Perhaps…you're old fashioned; no living together or sex until marriage."

"No," John replied firmly, "Can you really not drop it?"

"No."

John sighed in resignation. "Then fine. I said no because I'm afraid that if I move in with her, she'll see me as someone different, and we'll lose what we have. Happy."

"Very," Sherlock conceded as he now glanced out the window again. He supposed it could make sense. In his own good opinion, relationships were doomed from the beginning. Love was a fleeting feeling people created in their minds. There was no such emotion that existed; it was just a silly concept.

In sullen silence, the cab pulled up in front of their apartment. Sherlock paid the man and quickly fled the car. John hurried out, despite the pain in his leg. Both of them had seen it, had felt their stomachs tighten in a panic. The door to 221B Baker was a jar and the top window had been spray-painted with yellow ancient Chinese characters: 1 & 15: dead man.

"Mrs Hudson," John whispered, horrified, under his breath.

The same thought had crossed Sherlock's mind. He looked to John and then grabbed for the revolver in his coat pocket. He had been keeping it on his person ever since the swimming pool incident. "Take this and stay here."

"Sherlock…." But he would not hear a complaint. He shoved the revolver into John's unwilling hands before dashing away up the stairs. Entering into the flat, he felt the fear rise in his chest. The coffee table that usually stood in the hall, lay broken on its side next to a dark, red stain of blood. His stomach went all queasy as he stared at the crimson liquid. Not Mrs Hudson. Not her.

His first instinct was to call out in for her, but he could not bring himself to speak a single word. Instead, he moved cautiously towards the steps leading up to his flat. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't deny the fear tightly gripping at his heart as he took the steps two, no, three at a time, until he finally reached the upper level.

He was afraid to look, could not bring himself to stare at the devastation that had been laid to waste. But he could not avert his gaze, could not tear his eyes from the destruction. The entire flat lay completely overturned. Papers lay torn up, scattered to cover every inch of the floor. His tables and furniture too lay dejected on their sides. Even the kitchen looked the worse for wear. And what of their bedrooms? He hurried to the closed door, separating his bed chamber from the main room and threw it open.

"My God," he gasped as he took in the situation.

There, on his bed, lay Mrs Hudson, her eyes shut, blood dripping down her face from a gash on her forehead. Whoever had rendered her unconscious had also taken it upon themselves to gag and bind her. It enraged Sherlock to see how repulsively the old lady had been treated. He hurried to her side without hesitation and felt first for a pulse before pulling off the gag and untying her feet and hands.

She did not stir, even when Sherlock tried to gently shake her. "Mrs Hudson," he called once, twice, three times with no response. He felt again for her pulse. There was one, weak, but steady. Thank goodness.

Footsteps echoed behind Sherlock and he whirled around, half expecting to find himself face to face with the culprit. Instead, he found himself staring at John. His face too was contorted in unchecked rage as his eyes fell fixed on Mrs Hudson. "The bastard," John swore as he rushed in and sank to the ground next to Sherlock, grimacing as pain radiated up his leg. "She's not…"

Sherlock shook her head. "No. She's still alive." He did not critique John for having ignored his order. "Try to wake her up, call Lestrade and the hospital."

"Where are you going?"

"Upstairs."

John's room was not in the same disorder as the rest of their flat, yet there was something not quite right, something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. He glanced around the room. In the three months he had lived here with John, this was only his second time actually in John's room. The first time had been only take upon because he had needed John's revolver. Now, glancing at John's possessions, he tried to remember what the room had looked like then and if it differed at all now. But no, there was nothing out of the ordinary as far as he could tell. Disappointed, he made his way back down to see Mrs Hudson now sitting up, drinking water from a cup. John was holding a towel to her head, applying pressure to the oozing wound.

"Mrs Hudson, thank goodness." Sherlock stayed in the frame of the doorway, more relieved that he could say to see the woman alive. He had a soft spot for the woman and if any long lasting harm had come to her…

The elder lady smiled softly. "Sherlock. I was just telling Doctor Watson that there's no real need to call an ambulance. I'm perfectly fine."

"And as Doctor Watson no doubt told you, we need to be sure that you are actually fine. If only to be certain." He moved into the room now and sat down on the other side of Mrs Hudson, taking her tiny hands in his long ones. "Now, tell me Mrs Hudson, who did this to you?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Doctor Watson asked me the very same question and I'll give you the same answer. I don't know. The doorbell rang and when I went to see who it was, found the porch vacant. When I tried to shut it, a hand shot out and stopped me. I couldn't see their face, though. They pushed me and I fell into the table. Something hit me on the head and I blacked out. That's all I remember."

Sherlock nodded and released her hands. It was unfortunate that she could not name her assailant, but he didn't need her to. He knew who was responsible; there was only one man. Moriarty.

* * *

An ambulance arrived fifteen minutes later. The technicians were very gentle and in the end, after some examination, agreed to take her to the hospital, to keep an eye on her and to check for any severe head trauma. John insisted on going with her, but she adamantly refused his kind gesture. With a promise from Sherlock that he would fetch her in the morning, the ambulance left the scene with Mrs Hudson in tow.

"I just can't believe it," John whispered as he finally took the time to analyse the damage. "Who could have done this? Hurt Mrs Hudson, I mean. She's such a sweet lady."

"Can you really think of no one?" Sherlock admonished as he bent down to retrieve some of the paper littering the floor. He had noticed that the name Moriarty still remained, almost proudly, taped to the wall, but did not mention it to John. "If I am correct, and I'm almost one hundred per cent certain that I am, then the only man possibly responsible for this attack is our good friend, Moriarty."

"I'd almost forgotten that friends and enemies are equal in your mind," John scoffed sarcastically, "But do you really think?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock nodded, "The man would stop at nothing to torture me to my core."

"I will burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock froze as John's words pierced his ears. He had not forgotten the warning; those words were constantly reverberating in his mind like a drumbeat echoing over and over again. But to hear them pass through John's lips…it made him shiver to the core.

John bit his lips as the effect of his words were made visible in the smallest details of Sherlock's face. "Sorry, I just…you think he was serious?"

There was no response from Sherlock. Stony silence fell over the pair as they both returned to searching through the scattered pieces of their physical and mental lives. For a good half hour they waded through their possessions. Sherlock was relieved to see his laptop still in one piece, while John relished in the discovery that Sarah's fine China cups had not suffered as the rest of the house had.

"It's funny," John mused, unable to take the silence any longer. "He completely tore down your wall of evidence, or almost completely. Moriarty's name's still here. I suppose that means you're right."

"I suppose," Sherlock muttered. There was no reason to correct the good doctor on what had truly happened to the wall. "Oh, how cruel," he bemoaned suddenly as he located his cherished violin. It was no longer an instrument, but a myriad of splintered pieces. "Unnecessary waste."

John, meanwhile, was suffering his own losses as he spotted his laptop among the wreckage. Holding the screen in one hand and the keyboard in the other, he stood up, looking sour. "It'll take me ages to recover my work, now."

"Five minutes actually," Sherlock corrected him without lifting his head. He slid something John's way. The doctor glanced at it wonderingly before realizing what it was. "How will this help?"

"I've accustomed myself to create multiple backups of my files over the past few years. I figured that I should do the same for you in case it should ever crash while in my use."

John held the exterior hard drive in his hand, surprised by Sherlock's deep consideration. "Thank you."

"Of course."

KNOCK!

John almost dropped the box as a loud pounding resounded against the front door. He hurried over to the window and peered out between the yellow lines to catch a glimpse of the visitor. "It's Mycroft. Why doesn't he ring the bell?"

"Not forceful enough for my brother's liking," Sherlock replied, scowling without restraint. What business did Mycroft have there? Whatever it was, he could wait.

When Sherlock made no move to answer the door, John began to hobble towards the stairs. "Don't be ridiculous, John. You should rest your leg."

"If I don't answer it, will you?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going to rest," John retorted as he continued to limp forward.

"Stubborn fool. Sit down," Sherlock chided, turning over one of the chairs. John took it gratefully as Sherlock hurried to answer the door for his overcompensating brother.

"Took you long enough."

Sherlock said nothing, but stepped in Mycroft's path to stop him from going further into the house. "Whatever you want to discuss with me, we can discuss right here. John is upstairs sleeping."

"Oh how kind," Mycroft's tone was haunting, "I'm glad to see the marriage is still working for you, even after that terrible incident."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled threateningly, "and get out."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "No. You can't ignore me, Sherlock. Only a week back from the hospital and already another attack. I would hardly be fulfilling my big brother duties if I simply allowed this to continue. Give me twenty minutes of your time and then I'll leave you be."

Sherlock despised giving into Mycroft, but the man was persistent. Better to get this over with now then spend many more days tormented by Mycroft's overhanging shadow. "Fine."

The two ascended the steps. John grinned as he watched the brother's enter. They looked more alike than they could possibly know, each sporting an identical surly expression.

"Doctor Watson. I hope to find you in good health," Mycroft launched himself into niceties before inspecting the disaster. "I wonder, is standing the new sitting?"

Sherlock said nothing as he went to turn over another chair for Mycroft. "Thank you, Sherlock." His tone was condescending as he sank into the seat while his brother remained standing, unable to bring himself to take a seat, afraid to lower his defences. "The yellow graffiti," Mycroft pointed at the window with his cane. "Is that some new chic design?"

"A warning, actually," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, "Deadman."

Mycroft's frown deepened at Sherlock's disinterest. "Do you think this is funny, Sherlock? Is death a joke to you?"

"Hardly," Sherlock replied coolly, "but allowing yourself to fall into a state of unrepressed terror is no better. Now, what do you want, Mycroft? Indulge my curiosity."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, displeased, but did not push the matter, knowing it would be futile. "I want t increase the level of security over your flat. I feel as if you are terribly vulnerable at the moment."

"What? Even with the countless surveillance cameras you have diligently set up over the entire premise?"

"You mean the ones you removed," Mycroft snapped. "You're a stubborn man, Sherlock. They were there for your protection."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't go all big brother on me. You don't fool me, Mycroft. Not for a second."

"Stop being an idiot," Mycroft whispered angrily. "Think of Doctor Watson."

John looked surprised as the attention fell on him now. He had been quiet throughout the brothers' domestic row and did not want to be drawn into this quarrel. "I really don't…"

"Look what happened to him because of your stubborn ways, " Mycroft continued, cutting off John as if he hadn't even said a word. "Would you really risk his life so casually?"

"Now, hang on a sec," John interjected angrily. "I don't blame Sherlock for what happened. If he doesn't want your help, then I'm fine with that. Don't use me as your point of bargaining."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were taken aback by John's sudden outburst. Mycroft looked disappointed with John's refusal, while Sherlock's surprise fell into a triumphant grin. "Thank you, John." He glanced back at Mycroft. "As you can see, we're perfectly fine here. Why don't you go waste your money somewhere it can be better appreciated?"

"I can hardly say that I'm shocked by your demeanour, Sherlock, but you John…I wouldn't have expected such a cavalier response." John did not back down as Mycroft's eyes bore into his. He would not fold. "It's disappointing, actually, though I should be used to people letting me down." He glanced to Sherlock as he spoke, but the detective didn't say anything. The two brothers were caught in yet another staring contest, their cold eyes mirror reflections of each other as they waited to see who would be the first to look away.

In the end, both averted their gaze simultaneously as the sound of the doorbell erupted through the silence. Glancing out at the meadow, Sherlock sighed in relief. "It's Lestrade, and your cue to leave."

Mycroft, however, did not move from his seat. "I believe I'll stay. I need to have a few words with the Detective Inspector. This is a most happy coincidence."

Sherlock scowled at his brother's persistence but said not a word as the doorbell rang again. "Fine."

Lestrade was rapping furiously at the door when Sherlock arrived a few seconds later. He threw the door open to see the inspector in frantic mid-knock. "God, that took you long. I thought something else might have happened." His gaze fell past Sherlock. "Is that blood?"

"Mrs. Hudson's, but she's fine," Sherlock reassured him before continuing to talk in a low whisper. "Mycroft's here."

"Mycroft?"Lestrade questioned, surprised. He'd only met the man a few random times in all the five years he had known Sherlock, and they had all centered around some quarrel between the brothers. "Why?"

"He's a sadist; derives pleasure from torturing one with his presence," Sherlock quickly replied. "But listen. I don't want him to hear us discussing Moriarty. Alright?"

Lestrade nodded solemnly. "So, you really think…"

"Yes."

Silence fell between them for a few seconds, broken only by Mycroft's voice. "It's rude to keep people waiting, Sherlock!"

The two men exchanged a glance and Sherlock groaned inwardly. He wondered how long it would take to convince Mycroft to leave them alone.

* * *

**A.N. Well? Any good? Hardly good? Hardly worth reading? *sighs* I hope people are still enjoying this story. I know I enjoy writing every chapter, though every chapter seems to take nine months to write :P **

**Please leave a review to let me know if you're still interested in this or not. And thanks for the continued support. **

**Love you all,**

**Faith**


	6. Chapter Five

**A.N. Back with another chapter here! I feel so proud of myself. I think I like this chapter. And have you all seen the latest Sherlock episode! GAH! PURE EPICNESS! This season is going to be over too soon, but it's going to be epic as shows go! BRILLIANT :D**

**Thanks for all the reviews. READ ALONG:**

Chapter Five:

Almost three weeks later, Sherlock could be found staring blankly at the canine calendar Sarah had bought for John. A whole month had passed since the swimming pool incident. 30 days since his meeting with Moriarty; 30 days since John's near death experience; 30 days since his last thrilling case; 30 days of numbingly dull silence; 30 days, and he was about ready to blow his brains out.

He threw himself down on the couch now, and closed his eyes. A whole month has passed and not a single crime had been committed—not even a bloody store theft. It was as if the entire criminal world had taken a joint vacation, leaving the whole of London in its longest period of peace. People all over the city were rejoicing in the calm that had fallen, while he suffered in his lonely torment. He needed something to happen, needed the criminal world to wake up, needed to escape the boring meaningless his life had fallen into.

Every day, for the past three weeks he had tried to content himself with searching for Moriarty, but every path had led him to rubbish dead ends. With every continuous fail, Lestrade and John had become ever more convinced that Jim Moriarty was, in fact, dead. Only three days ago he and the doctor had sat down to discuss the possibility.

"It can't be just a coincidence," John had suggested while eating Chinese take-out.

"No, I dare say it isn't."

"Maybe it's like a tribute to his memory."

Sherlock had scoffed at the idea. "Firstly, it would hardly be a worthy tribute. Secondly, he's not dead."

"You don't know that for sure. The man's already a ghost. Who can say for sure if he's men his master or not?"

"I can."

Their conversation had lagged from there. Sherlock refused to stray from his position, convinced that the sudden silence of the criminal class was no tribute, but another strike at him. Moriarty knew him well enough to know that he lived and breathed off the quest for murderers, thieves and the like. He could not exist without the criminal class. His search for Moriarty was not enough to whet his insatiable appetite. He needed so much more, so very much more.

His eyes opened as the sound of creaking floor reached his ears. He didn't move, didn't need to look to know that John was back from his hospital visit. Sarah had taken him today to remove the cast from his arm. Admittedly, Sherlock was glad that he had not been the one to go. He was down enough as it was, and the hospital would have done nothing to cheer his low spirits.

"How did it go?"

"Fine. Doctor Matthews says I can return to work in two weeks."

"Good."

Pointless conversation. Sherlock closed his eyes once more. His ears could detect John's movements as he went first into the kitchen, releasing a low groan as he, no doubt, spotted the countless papers covering the table, papers that had not been there when he left. He then made his way back into the main area and sank into his usual chair, the creaking of his weight falling into it, a loud sign.

"Is it absolutely necessary to have our flat constantly looking as if a bomb's gone off in it?"

"Only on Wednesday and weekends," Sherlock muttered. "Why?"

"Nothing."

A lie. Sherlock twisted his head to the side, his eyelids flying up to reveal curious blue orbs. "Why?" he repeated.

John shrugged. "Nothing. I just like coming home to a clean house. Is that a crime?"

"No, but lying is. And you are such a frightfully awful liar, Watson," Sherlock added the surname as he often did when teasing the good doctor. "Now, the truth."

John sighed. "Sarah's coming over for supper."

Sherlock sat up now, staring incredulously at John. "You invited her?"

"I had to. She was so kind to bring me today. And she hasn't been over all week," John argued as he was met with expected resistance.

"With good reason. Remember last time she was over?" Sherlock protested. "I can't go through that again."

"She was trying to help…"

"She washed my clothes!" Sherlock raised his voice in frustration.

John threw his arms up in the air in distress. "That's what people do, Sherlock. Why you protest to being treated like a normal, human being is beyond my comprehension."

Sherlock fell silent. John did not notice his slip of the tongue, but Sherlock could not ignore it.

_People have died._

_That's what people DO._

Moriarty's voice resounded in Sherlock's head. No matter what he did, he could not rid himself of the man. He was everywhere he went, a constant presence in the back of his mind, held back only by Sherlock's resolve, breaking free only in moments of weakness such as this.

"Will you at least try to be civil?" John broke in, mistaking Sherlock's silence for unwilling permission.

Sherlock nodded silently, the fight drained out of him as he lay back down, clasping his hands together and folding them carefully over his chest. If the absence of the criminal class hadn't killed him yet, he would be able to survive one night with the woman.

"Thank you," John sighed in relief as he now stood up to do his best to clean Sherlock's unruly mess. He did not both to request Sherlock's aid. "I suppose I should be glad you haven't blamed the wall for your boredom yet," he added as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Yes, well, it helped that your gun wasn't to be found in any of the possible places. You're hiding it from me. Don't trust me?"

John froze in the midst of stacking the papers on the table. He re-entered the common room, frowning. "You actually went looking for it?"

"It's been a month, John," Sherlock argued, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's been a month," John said, his voice leaning on disbelief. "You know, most people are thrilled with the lack of crime."

"Am I people, John?"

The doctor paused, not wanting to answer the question, lacking the courage to say anything. Sherlock scoffed at his silence, knowing perfectly well why he wouldn't utter a word. "You keep forgetting that I am more similar to Moriarty than not. I'm no hero."

"You're not like Moriarty. You're trying to catch him."

Sherlock laughed again, his voice empty, hollow. "Am I? How do you know that I'm trying the hardest I can? Maybe I don't want to catch him again. Maybe I've realized that I can't live without him."

"Don't say that," John said quietly, his voice pleading. "Stop making yourself the monster."

Sherlock's voice was frighteningly low when he next spoke. "But maybe that's what I am." He had been struggling with the thought for a few days now. It hadn't ever really bothered him before Moriarty, knowing that he enjoyed solving crimes. But then he had experienced the thrill of the chase, and Moriarty had become his drug of choice, an addiction he could not rid himself of. He needed to feel that high again, and it scared him to know how much he needed death to feel alive.

"Sherlock, don't…"

But he didn't want to hear John's comforting voice. The Doctor put too much faith in him, believed too readily that Sherlock was merely another victim. He flipped over on the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest in a foetal position, his back to John. His eyes gazed blankly into the furnished couch. He knew John was staring at him, pitying him; he could feel his eyes boring in his back, but he refused to turn.

It too a minute more before John finally returned to diligently cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the table of littered debris. It looked far more presentable now. He walked back into the room and stared again at Sherlock's unresponsive back, the silence bothering him more than anything.

Sherlock, too, was focusing on the silence of the room. Usually, it would not have bothered him, but now he felt as if he was being strangled by it, drowning in it. He needed to escape it, escape the mixture of feelings eating at his heart. But before he could make the move, the doorbell rang, announcing Sarah's arrival.

He waited to hear John's disappearing footsteps, but there wasn't a sound. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder, only to see John standing stiffly by the window. His expression was one of contemplation. The bell rang again, but John still didn't move. Downstairs, it was Mrs Hudson who could be heard making her way to let the poor girl in.

John turned away from the window as the front door opened below. He looked towards Sherlock, seemingly surprised to see the detective's attention on him. "We could go out instead…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock chided. "She's already here."

Indeed, the sound of two pairs of feet clambering up the steps was easily detectable as silence fell again. Mrs Hudson arrived first, grinning broadly. It was no secret that she was enthusiastic about Sarah and John's relationship. "Did neither of you hear the door?" she asked incredulously. "Poor Sarah had to ring twice, and it's chilly out there."

"It's fine Mrs Hudson. Really," Sarah said softly as she appeared now in the doorway, wearing a red chemise and black skirt. Her hair was pinned up so that only a few strands fell into her face. She grinned at John before turning to the man on the couch. "Sherlock."

"Sarah." Sherlock turned onto his back now and closed his eyes again.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson chided exasperatedly. "You have a guest!"

John stepped up to respond before Sherlock could say anything unfortunate. "He's alright, Mrs Hudson. Thank you."

Sherlock opened one eye as Mrs Hudson took her leave, uttering well wishes. Then, the other one. Sarah and John were standing awkwardly together, looking discomforted. He sighed heavily as he sat up. "So, what's for supper?"

John threw him a grateful eye. "I figured I could just order some Chinese."

"No," Sarah spoke up, touching John gently on the arm. "I thought it would be nice if I made some of my homemade lasagne for you."

"You really don't have to…"

"That sounds delicious."

Their simultaneous responses prompted Sarah to laughter. "I'll take that as a yes." Still laughing, she wandered to the kitchen.

"You really don't want her opening the fridge door."

John's eyes widened. "What did you…Sarah! Wait!" He rushed off towards the kitchen, leaving Sherlock with a silly smirk as he rolled off the couch. Stepping over the table, he too made his way to the kitchen were John had placed himself firmly between Sarah and the refrigerator, smiling sheepishly.

"What are you hiding from me, John?" she questioned.

"Nothing," John replied, glancing now at Sherlock warningly. "You know, it just struck me that our resources are somewhat depleted. We should do the groceries."

Sarah turned to face Sherlock. He merely shrugged. Sarah knew better, but she wouldn't say a word against John. "Let's go, then."

Five minutes later, they were out the door and Sherlock was once more forced into silence. He tried to relish in it, but he could not. It was too cold, too empty. Ever since Watson had moved in, being alone had become more of a hassle than a pleasure. If only he had violin, but Moriarty had splintered it beyond recognition and he had not found a suitable replacement.

"Sherlock, why are you just standing there?"

Mrs Hudson had reappeared in his flat, carrying with her a baked pie, steam wafting from the top. It was apple—the cinnamon smell was overwhelming. She was frowning. "You should dress, make yourself presentable."

She hurried into the kitchen, and Sherlock followed her sullenly. "I doubt it's your responsibility to take care of me. You're not my housekeeper, remember?"

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue impatiently as she slid her pie into their oven. "Oh my God!" The pie fell from her hands, its contents splattering across the floor as she retreated in fear and disgust. "Sherlock! There's brain in your oven!"

"Right; forgot I had put it there. The fridge was already packed with the organs," Sherlock explained. "I doubt that pie is edible now."

"Sherlock!" Exasperation was plaguing his tenant's voice as she grabbed at her chest, breathing heavily. "You've absolutely no decency."

"Sherlock shrugged as he walked out of the kitchen. "Apparently." He sank, once more, into his couch, fingers folded. Mrs Hudson followed him, her eyes burning with fierce condemnation.

"Sherlock Holmes, I know that you couldn't care less if the earth revolved around the sun or if burning vital human organs plague one's house with the most acrid scent, but you are not the only person living in this flat. Now, Doctor Watson, God bless his soul, puts up with all your nonsense. You owe him this one night. Now, you're going to help me make the kitchen presentable and then you are going to change into something clean. Come on."

Impressed wonderment filled Sherlock's eyes as he stared at the short woman, her entire being radiating strength and force. He was moved by her speech, not accustomed to hearing the usually kind lady reprimand him so. It provoked a smile. "Very well," he said finally. "You can be very persuasive when you want to be, my dear Mrs Hudson; very persuasive indeed."

* * *

Half an hour later, the kitchen was absolutely spotless. Sherlock had never laboured so hard in his life, and he swore, in that moment, that he never would again. Even his experiments had been moved into his bedroom for the time being, a relocation he would correct with Sarah's departure. But Mrs Hudson hadn't stopped there. Instead, she had forced him into the shower, complaining that he reeked of rotten substances, and how his hair was far too dirty. Truth be told, he avoided the shower with certain vehemence. Only his mind mattered; everything else was transport—a mantra he stood by in every aspect of everyday. Still, he couldn't deny that the sensation o water falling over his body felt almost relieving as it washed away his foul mood.

Stepping out of the shower, he was hit by a cool chill that caused him to shiver. The towel tied around his mid-drift was doing no good. And his bed robe…he had been stupid enough to leave it in the Living Room. Cursing the unexpected cold, Sherlock hurried out of the bathroom and then froze as he realized the room was not as vacant as he'd thought.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes were wide as he glanced from the bare chest of the detective to the skimpy tower. He coughed awkwardly. Sarah too was staring from where she stood beside John, a tiny smile curving her lips.

Sherlock bit his lips, frustrated to be caught in such a vulnerable and compromising situation, and yet also amused. "Well, it's not like you've never seen a naked man before." John opened his mouth to protest to Sherlock's comment, but the man wouldn't give him an inch. "Sort of comes with the description of doctor. Now, if you'll both be so kind to grant me leave, I'll slip into something more appropriate for the occasion."

Sherlock no longer felt cold as he disappeared into his bedroom. He didn't truly feel embarrassed, either. No doubt, the happy couple felt more ashamed than he. Turning around in search for his shirt, Sherlock found himself suddenly staring into the lone mirror in his room. There was a huge crack in the middle, a result of a most bothersome case and a bottle of tequila. His reflection stared back at him, frowning, dark circles under his eyes. he looked terrible, gaunt, pale. He looked like himself. His eyes fell to the scar in his reflection's shoulder. A faint red line marked the place where the bullet had pierced his skin, the only physical memento of Moriarty's cruelty. It surprised him, really, to see how thin he was. The mirror, usually covered by a rug, could not draw his attention to the small details of his body. And should he really care if his torso was verging on skeletal; if his arms were too thin and flat; and if his abdomen was flatter than a pancake. All that mattered was his mind, and he was surviving perfectly well with his lifestyle. So, why should anything else matter?

Ten minutes later, the tall detective re-joined Sarah and John, completely clothed in his dark, skinny jeans and a navy blue shirt. The two of them were in the kitchen, and both seemed relieved to see him fully dressed. Neither mentioned the earlier incident, and none would, though it was obviously on their mind.

"Mrs Hudson just brought us an apple pie for desert," John informed him from where he sat, slicing cheese. He glanced up at Sherlock and quickly mouthed the words _thank you_ before refocusing his attention on the task at hand.

Sarah looked back as she finished washing a bowl of tomatoes. "Can you help me chop them, Sherlock?"

Sherlock would have easily refused had John not looked at him pleadingly. He sighed in resignation. "Fine. But I warn you: I'm dangerous with a knife." He took the tomatoes from Sarah and placed himself opposite John. "How big?"

"Dice sized," Sarah replied.

In silence, the three kept to their tasks. John finished before Sherlock and proceeded to take on some of his task. When finally they had finished, Sarah began to layer the glass plate she had brought with her. "I just love lasagne," she commented as she slid the dish into the brainless oven. "Give it half an hour."

She took a seat beside John, silence falling again as they struggled to find good ground for their conversation. Sarah made the first attempt, sending the evening spiralling out of control. "So, Sherlock, have you been feeling well?"

"Fine, thanks," Sherlock answered curtly. "And yourself?"

"Yes, fine." A pause. "You know…I never realized how small you actually were."

John's eyes opened wide in horror. Sherlock's expression did not change as his gaze fixated on Sarah. "And you're mentioning this out of concern no doubt. I can assure you that I'm perfectly fine."

Sarah didn't look back down, even at the tone of finality in his voice. "John's told me that you don't eat regularly. It's not healthy."

"Oh please, spare me your concern. We've had this discussion so many times now. It becomes tiresome. I eat when I need to."

Displeasure creased Sarah's forehead. "The only reason I press the matter is because I want to be certain that you're doing well. You need to eat, Sherlock. You need to take care of yourself."

Sherlock sighed deeply as he leaned forward in his chair, staring unblinkingly into Sarah's eyes. "I do take care of myself, despite what you may believe. Now, don't bother yourself with cares for my well-being. You should be focusing your attention on John. Lord knows he want it."

"Sherlock," John chided, suddenly looking anxious. His gaze fell pleadingly. "Let's drop it, shall we?" He glanced at Sarah, his expression constant. "Do you want the red or white wine?"

But Sarah was still focused on Sherlock. "And you mean to tell me that concerning yourself with Moriarty and spending every waking hour grieving over whether he's alive or dead is healthy?"

"Moriarty is no concern of yours, either."

"But you want him to be alive! He almost killed John and you pray for life!" Sarah shouted without warning. It took both men by surprise as her raised voice echoed around them. She was visibly upset, but Sherlock could not care less. She was a guest, in his house, and he would not let her simply treat him with such disdain.

He stood up slowly, the feet of his chair grinding angrily against the cool linoleum floor. "You mean to guilt me into remorse?" His voice was dangerously low. "John knows that I regret what almost happened. But you will not come into my flat and judge me for it. Now, leave."

"Now, Sherlock…"John tried desperately to intervene as he stood too, his posture one of a defensive nature. But the detective would hear no more.

"I will not be insulted like this," Sherlock hissed.

"And I will not let you force her to leave," John stated firmly.

The tension in the room was raising to a fever pitch as John and Sherlock faced off, the two friends falling into yet another argument while Sarah watched anxiously in the background. Neither was willing to budge as they stood in blind anger, neither willing to step down as they stayed true to their ideals.

Sherlock stared hard at John, mentally willing the doctor to back away, to give in. But he was stubborn, as stubborn as Sherlock himself. And he could go on for hours. He would not be swayed by anything earthly or otherwise. No, nothing at all could drag…

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson came dashing in suddenly, pushed on by some wild spirit. She burst through their clashing rages, breaking the discomfort of before.

"Not now, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock whispered through ground teeth without even glancing at the older woman.

But Mrs Hudson would not budge. "A letter's just come for you." She waved a white piece of paper in his face, but Sherlock showed no interest.

"Leave it on the table, and I'll deal with it later."

"But, Sherlock…"

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock finally tore his gaze from the couple and placed them fiercely on the now cowering old woman. "You will do well to leave this be. I do not have the time to deal with petty matters such as these." And when he said petty matters, he really meant the squabble already taking place between himself and the two doctors.

"In the midst of a domestic, are we?" Mrs Hudson questioned as her eyes swept the kitchen. "Well, I understand it must be bothersome, but Sherlock, the letter says urgent."

"Oh, give it here." Sherlock snatched the letter up from the woman, annoyed that she had gotten through to him. He scanned the page quickly, noting the fine cursive handwriting. Reaching the end, his eyes opened wide. Then, he read it again. And once more.

John watched the detective intently, the argument forgotten as worry enveloped him. "What is it?"

Sherlock did not reply at first. Reading the words for the fourth time, he felt his heart rate accelerate. This was what he had been waiting for: this sign, this hope. A victorious smile lined his lips as he read it a fifth time

_Mr Sherlock Holmes,_

_Have you enjoyed the silence? Or has it driven you mad with boredom? Either way, your time is up. Enough wasting, enough stalling. The game is ready to begin again. A storm is coming and you'd better be ready. This game has no rules and lightning can strike twice. Anything goes._

_A concerned friend_

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked again, terrified by the crooked smile on the detective's face as he finally placed the letter on the table and allowed his eyes to meet the doctor's.

His entire body was trembling with anticipation. Signed or not, he had no doubt that the letter was from Moriarty. Finally. After a month of dawdling, after a month of semi-patient wait, all was about to return to some form of secure reality.

"Sherlock!"

The doctor's voice was sharp, brimmed with exasperation as he ripped the letter from Sherlock's hand. He was horrified by the demonic grin splashed across Sherlock's face and as the detective refused to respond, John took it upon himself to inform his curiosity.

Sherlock watched carefully as John read, noting the look of sheer terror taking hold. So different, their reactions; so completely opposite.

The letter fluttered from John's hands, landing on the floor silently.

"It's him, John," Sherlock finally breathed. "Moriarty."

"Sherlock," John could hardly stand the look of excitement glinting in his friend's eyes, but before another word could be uttered, a loud ring pierced the air.

The detective's jean pocket vibrated simultaneously with the sound and he reached anxiously for his mobile. Holding it up, he gazed with increasing joy at the name flashing across the screen. It was Lestrade.

His wait was indeed over

**AN: Thoughts? Questions? Expectations? I love reviews. They make me smile, and are ultimate inspirations. Anyway, let me know what you think. Are you ready for the action to commence? Cause it's coming. That I can promise. The next chapter sees the mess 'Moriarty' has left for Sherlock.**

**Love always,**

**Faith  
**


	7. Chapter Six

**A.N. OH. MY GOD! That last episode. For fear of spoilers, I won't say anything more, but if anyone wants to discuss that last, brilliantly epic, heartwrenching episode, please send me a PM because honestly, honestly!**

**Okay, rant over. High on Sherlock, I just had to finish this chapter. I'm hoping to be more consistent with this story, though I have to admit that I'm worried it's not catching anyone's interest. No reviews on the last chapter…it's not that I want to be one of those people who takes the stance of, if you don't review, I'm not going to finish it, but I just want to know if you're at all still intrigued by this story, because if not, I might stop it all completely and start working on other ones. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter. Things are finally getting heated as Sherlock finds himself locked in a new game with the infamous James Moriarty.**

**SMALL WARNING: There's a section of this that's slightly graphic as it describes a murder scene so just be aware of it; it's the briefest of instances and I'm sure it's fine within the context of a T-rating. If anything gets too bad, I'll be sure to forewarn you about it.**

Chapter Six:

The cabbie who pulled up to 221B Baker Street immediately regretted his decision as he caught sight of his passengers. One stood a good head taller than the other, with curly, ebony locks. He was rubbing his hands together feverously, a wickedly gleeful smile spread across his face. The other man was sandy-haired and wore a disapproving glare. His real reason for regret was not his fear that they were some odd married couple, but rather that this was the man cabbies spoke of under their breath. _Mr Sherlock Holmes_. He'd heard terrible stories of the man who chased death, but so far had been fortunate to avoid his wrath. His luck had run out.

He observed the tall, slim figure that clambered into his vehicle carefully. It was a deep, uninterested voice that passed on the address. His grin had gone, but he smirked ever so slightly as he glanced out the window. His eyes were piercing, frigid and dark. Two brown orbs gazed out, but they did not seem to see. When the second man was seated, he finally looked away.

Sherlock said nothing as the curious driver turned his head. He was nothing short of amused by the man's attempts to read him. No doubt he'd been warned by his colleagues, and from the looks of it, he was taking those warnings to heart. Well, let him think as he did, it hardly mattered. All that mattered to him, at that moment, was his destination, and the crime scene that awaited him there.

Lestrade had sounded frantic, leaving Sherlock only an address, and a plea for help. He had divulged no details. It was better that way, better for him to have a clear mind when he arrived.

He was still surprised that John had agreed to come along, what with Sarah back at 221B in obvious distress. But his eyes had said it all when he had adamantly volunteered to come: _I need to make sure you don't do anything stupid. _And so Sarah was now under the watchful eye of Mrs Hudson, and John was sitting, stiff as a board beside him.

"You need not have come."

John scoffed loudly. "Lestrade is going to need me there to watch you. Lord knows what you'll do on a free rein."

"I hardly need to be treated like a child," Sherlock argued good-humouredly. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

"What about the pool?" John demanded incredulously. "You acted impulsively…"

"And almost got you killed," Sherlock interrupted coldly. "Yes. But I've learned the error of my ways. I won't be taken by surprise again."

John did not look at all reassured by the detective's reply, shaking his head in disbelief. "Do you see yourself? Do you ever pause to think about what it is you're doing? Do you ever imagine doing something different?"

"Something different?" Sherlock repeated, bemused by the suggestion. "Hardly. For a month, John, I've been confined to flat, waiting for this moment. He's kept me waiting, but no longer. This is what I thrive. This gives me a reason to live. If that bothers you, you're free to go."

John remained silent for a while, his eyes glazing over. "I can't go; I'm emotionally invested." And with that, silence took over completely.

Sherlock pondered John's statement as the cab rolled along. _Not much further now_. His insides were burning again in anticipation, excited for the moment when they would finally arrive, when he would step out on the gravel and stare at the mess Moriarty had left just for him. A tiny smile flickered across his lips. The game was begun. There was no turning back.

_It's strange, though_. The thought seeped into his mind before he could stop it. _To be emotionally invested._ The concept itself was easy enough to comprehend. He could suppose that he was emotionally invested in his work; he did live and breathe it after all. But for John to say he was emotionally invested…it sounded absolutely illogical.

The matter dropped swiftly as the cab came to a sudden halt. "'Ere we are then," the man announced, putting too much effort into sounding jovial.

Sherlock leapt from the car without a sound, expecting John to pay as usual. Police tape was already strung around the area, cordoning off the street normally shared by pedestrians and drivers. A curious group was beginning to form, trying to see what little they could of the crime scene waiting ahead. Sally Donovan was doing her best to keep them at bag, her hands waving frantically. They paid her no heed.

_Rightfully so,_ he though as the cab sped away. John stepped up beside him, and he could almost taste the Doctor's growing trepidation. "And so it begins," he commented softly, not at all interested in attempting to assuage John's fears.

John followed him dutifully as he strode towards the barricade. The crowd was steadily increasing in size, but they hardly too care to notice Sherlock's approach. Sally, on the other hand, could stare at nothing else.

"He didn't," she bemoaned as he stepped up to the yellow ticker tape.

Sherlock grinned devilishly. "He did, indeed." Raising the banner, he let John walk through first, before following him into crime territory. She watched him the entire time with sharp, disapproving eyes.

"We don't need your help."

Sherlock hesitated, turning his head to face her. "You don't know how wrong you are." That left her silent. Unabashed, he continued on, focusing all his attention now on the lit alleyway to his left. _Dark. Secluded. Little chance of witnesses. How dull._

He grimaced slightly, but continued on, stopping only when Lestrade appeared at his side. "You don't waste time."

"I've been waiting a month. That's enough time wasted, thank you very much."

Lestrade frowned darkly. "Really, Sherlock!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Time wasted? How about lives spared?"

"It surprises you?"

"Yeah."

One eyebrow raised in questioning confusion. "Interesting," he muttered. "Now, crime?"

"Right." Lestrade looked ever so slightly deterred, but continued on nonetheless. "I think you should just see it."

John paused. "How bad is it?"

The dark look in Lestrade's eyes would have sufficed, but he added: "A bloody mess."

John gazed warily at Sherlock, uncertain what to think. "Brilliant," he offered sarcastically. "What do you say to that?" he directed this last question at Sherlock.

The detective chose not to respond, pressing forward in one long stride, his coat swinging around his ankles. He was fascinated, not disgusted by the idea that Moriarty had left him a mess to solve. After a month, he was expecting something great, something challenging, something that would force him to consider every angle, every turn, every option.

"Just one last warning." Sherlock breathed impatiently as Lestrade called them to a halt. "This won't be pleasant."

"It never is," Sherlock commented, meaning it as an insult, a sarcastic remark on the stomach of these men. Death was not easy. If it was, more people would be surgeons and police officers, and soldiers. As it were, some of the smartest people fell to far more menial jobs of teaching. None of them understood, but he did—better than most—how death could not be separated from life.

Shoving past Lestrade, Sherlock emerged in the darkened alley, his eyes drawn to the spot lit by the police spotlight. A body, if it could indeed be called that, was lying there in a thick pool of blood, completely naked.

"Oh good Lord," John whispered behind him, stumbling slightly at the sight. He bent over, as if about to retch in disgust, but nothing came. A few deep gasps later and he was standing once more.

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock's manner was brusque at the doctor's sudden sickness. He did not need a partner who turned white at the sight of a mangled corpse. For, indeed, there was no word to describe the body before them then that: mangled.

At one time it had been a woman, though you could hardly tell looking at it. Head shaven, the face itself had been beaten until blood and bone had broken through the flesh. The rest of her body was torn apart, though her breasts were still intact. It was indeed a mess.

"Poor soul," John muttered, stepping up beside the corpse. He did not kneel over it, revulsion keeping her from getting too close. "They destroyed her."

Sherlock made no comment as he crept around the body. Looking closely at one hand, he could see the signs of wrinkles on her fingers and the coarse callouses ingrained in her skin. He moved to her feet, noticing sores beneath her soles. Shifting back up, he glanced at her kneecaps, glad they were not marred, because he could now clearly see the scrapes upon them.

"Our woman here," he said finally, standing tall with confidence, "was a maid. For reasons obvious," he added as Lestrade and Watson stared at him suspiciously.

"Oh yeah, of course," Lestrade agreed, frowning darkly as he did. Sherlock cast aside the sarcastic remark as he flipped open his phone. Turning to John, Lestrade sighed deeply. "In two minutes he'll tell us her name and everything about her, and I'll feel like a complete idiot."

"I wouldn't bet against you," John concurred.

Indeed, a minute and twenty seconds later Sherlock released a loud a-ha, lifting his phone towards the two observant men. "Her name is Mina Weathers. She works as maid for a family of five. This says she's been missing for a day. I'm surprised you didn't realize Lestrade."

Immersed as he was, Sherlock did not notice the inspector shift uncomfortably. "So much for a game," Sherlock continued, as he glanced back at the woman. "A teaser perhaps for what's to come."

"Excuse me," Lestrade interjected. "You're acting like you've solved the case. We don't even know who the perv is yet!"

"You think it's Moriarty," John declared knowingly.

"Moriarty?" Lestrade repeated, flustered. "Impossible. The man's dead."

"Show me his head on a plate and then I'll believe you," Sherlock chided, annoyed by their ignorance. The anger was quick to go as he noticed it there, stuck into the wall before him.

Breezing past Lestrade and John, his hand gripped at the manila envelope, freeing it from its prison, excitement fluttering through him, his anxiety growing as he saw his name scrawled across the front.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? That's evidence," Lestrade exclaimed as Sherlock ripped into the back.

He tossed aside the inspector's concern. "He wouldn't dare leave a fingerprint. We're dealing with a god of crime here." Done with his task, his fingers delicately reached for the paper inside, sliding it out with delicate care. Unfolding the creases, he read:

_Hello love,_

_Miss me? Imagine yes. Lord knows I've missed you. But enough chit-chat._

_Here's my first present to you. I'm sure by now you already know who she was and where she worked. Congrats, I suppose. But this is child's play let me assure you. She's only the first of many. We're playing my game now, and if you grow cocky, you will lose. You'll lose either way to be sure, but you'll survive longer if you stay sharp. And I love you sharp. Make me quiver, Mr Holmes; make me fear. Play the game. Lose, but play it anyway._

_I'll be seeing you. Promise._

He could only smile.

The game was on.

But he would win.

He had to win.

He had to.

C H A P T E R S I X

After wasting nearly half an hour arguing with Lestrade over the identity of the murderer as the possibilities of another serial killer, Sherlock had hurriedly left the scene. He'd checked the alley with thorough care, but there were no clues to be found, save for the letter, and even that had been unexpected. Moriarty would not be careless. The clues lay in subtext, waiting to be found. Solve the case, find the next woman, that was the plan. He needed to be a step ahead, needed to know where Moriarty would strike next to catch him in the act. Simple as that. And yet there was nothing more complicated.

Arriving back at the flat, John had left straight away once more after ringing Sarah, intent on checking on her. Assured with her safety, he'd returned not long after and turned in without saying as much as a goodnight to the detective.

Sherlock did not sleep. How could he? His body was racing endlessly with a need to find the answer in the invisible. He was back and ready to accept the challenge placed before him.

When John awoke, he found Sherlock had not moved an inch from where he'd left him the night before, sitting by the window, staring vacantly into the morning sky.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, concerned—no, troubled—by Sherlock's demeanour.

Sherlock shook his head. "What sleep can be found when the mind is racing? He's waiting for me, John, waiting for me to make my move. I must know more." He turned away from the window to stare at the doctor. "I don't know if I want you to get involved."

"Aren't I already involved?" John asked sullenly. "Emotionally invested, remember? And besides, we don't even know…"

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock interrupted coldly. "I do."

John did not fight him this time; they'd exhausted that conversation the night before. "So, what do we plan to do about it, then?"

"Sherlock grinned. "Win."

After a moment's pause, John came to the realization that there would be no follow-up. "And how do you plan on winning?"

"By being one step ahead of him." His gaze was unwavering as he faced John. "I don't want to lie to you, John. This game is not one for a child. If I intend to win, I have to play with a ferocity. It won't be easy, and it won't be nice. If you really want to work with me, John, then you have to be with me no matter what."

John's expression fell, his gaze expressing his sudden reluctance in allowing Sherlock to run rampant with his beliefs. "Sherlock…"

"You know me, John. You know who I am."

"Yes, I do."

"Then why does this surprise you?"

"Because, Sherlock," John argued suddenly, "this is more than just you solving a case. This is an obsession."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to dance with sudden carelessness, a thick grin brewing on his lips. "Yes, it is."

"Oh, God, do you hear yourself?" John sputtered. "Can you at least try to approach this with care, and not just jump into it as though there's a guarantee that we'll come out alive."

"If I could, I would," Sherlock told him coolly. "There is no care that can be taken now, John. We must approach with ferocity and wit. Moriarty is playing against us and he will not play fair. If we hope to win, we must play the game the same."

John sighed heavily, but said no more against the detective. What could he say to change the man's mind? He was set in his ways, certain he knew the best. It would take another bomb to shake him from his methodical rampage.

"Do you have any ideas yet of where he'll strike next?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet. But I will." He seemed pleased that John was choosing not to argue with him and turned to the doctor with a sly smile. "I think it's time I pay a visit to the Gordon household. Care to join me?"

John nodded and followed Sherlock wordlessly out the front door, joining him more with the intent to keep an eye on him than with any real interest in calling upon some poor blokes who were in danger of being verbally abused.

C H A P T E R S I X

The house before them was more a mansion. John stared it up and down, his head shaking incredulously. It was white marble, really posh—if you cared to use that word—with an imposing ebony roof and a rather large scarlet double-door. Standing three stories tall and he could only imagine how many feet wide, it looked large enough to house five families. "Who are these people again?"

"The husband: John Gordon is a politician. His wife: Jenny Gordon is a prominent lawyer. Their eldest daughter is currently attending Oxford, their youngest two children are enrolled in the most expensive private schools. But most importantly, they are the former employers of our mangled woman."

John whistled low again. "My mum would have a thing or two to say about these people."

The fact that this was the first time John had ever mentioned his mother to Sherlock completely eluded the detective in terms of its significance. Social protocol evaded him in this matter, so he did not build on it, and the event passed quickly from mind.

"Let's meet the people Mina Weathers worked for, shall we?"

He rung once, allowing his finger to linger with pressure for a few seconds while the notes of the bell rang out muffled behind closed doors. His finger lifted, paused slightly over the button and then came down a second time ten seconds later, this time making the visit brief, his hand pulling up instantaneously.

A man dressed in black tails opened the door. He had an old look about him, though John could hardly imagine him being more than thirty-three, maybe thirty-four. Looking carefully at the two of them, his dull green eyes seemed wary of their presence.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

"You're missing a maid. We found her," Sherlock stated simply, his own gaze sharp as he regarded the man before him. John could only imagine the truths he was discovering about the stranger before them.

The man shifted, discomforted. "Mina?" He coughed, glancing quickly into the interior. "I must ask the two of you to leave."

Sherlock's head tilted slightly, his eyes hawk-like as a frown crossed his features. "The police have already been here, I suppose. You know she's dead."

The man stammered. "Who are you?"

"I work for a special division of the police, serial killers," Sherlock responded without missing a beat, pulling a badge and identity from his coat pocket. "May I come in?"

He glanced again into the interior. "The household is rather upset…"

"How kind," Sherlock interjected. "Only the butler but you feel like you're part of the family. No doubt because you have no one else in this cruel world to cling to. And were you and Mina lovers, or…no…good friends. Confidantes. She was a beautiful girl; you were out of her league. Unrequited love. I imagine that must be difficult. She's dead, though, so now you don't have to blame it on yourself. If you want justice, you really should let me in and stop your incessant gaping."

The words tumbled without restraint out of Sherlock's mouth. John could only watch on in shock as the man before them seemed to shrink to the size of a cockroach, unable to withstand the verbal abuse of the great detective. "How…how could…how…?"

"Stammering is really not flattering on you," Sherlock pointed out roughly, seeming suddenly impatient. "We're wasting time lingering here. There's a murderer to catch and I would really like to have this done before noontime. May I?" Without waiting for a reply, the detective strode past the baffled butler and into the rather ostentatious interior.

"You really shouldn't feel bad. He does it to everyone," John offered a quick apology to the man. "And your name is?"

"Allen. Allen Kitters," the butler replied, looking even more confused than before. "He's going to get me fired."

Turning around, he pursued Sherlock, leaving John standing at the front door, feeling rather imposing as he too came into the house, closing the door behind him.

He tried not to take notice of all the chandeliers, paintings and mirrors dazzling the main entrance hall, or the large, daunting size of it all as he followed the two men through the house.

"You can't go up there!" Allen protested as Sherlock began to ascend the grand staircase before him. Dressed in a thick, black carpet, it appeared rather like something from Buckingham Palace.

Sherlock paid him no heed, continuing up without any pause.

_Oh, Sherlock_, John thought, biting his lip. This would not lead to anything good.

Another figure appeared then, in the hallway above. A tall man—perhaps even a good head taller than Sherlock—stood at the top of the rail, gazing down at the threesome with disapproving eyes. No doubt the 'master' of the house, he did not appear to be in any good humour. _No, no good at all_.

"What are you doing in my house? Allen?" He looked to the butler quickly for an explanation before returning his gaze to Sherlock who looked not the bit shaken by his appearance as he came to stand at the top of the stairs. Yes, Master Gordon was a good head taller than Sherlock.

"They say they're with the police—serial killer division," Allen rushed his reply, looking harried. "I tried to stop them."

"He proved rather incompetent in that regard," Sherlock spoke up quickly. "I would suggest reconsidering his position, but I imagine that after six months the same idea has already crossed your mind."

John Gordon appeared off-balanced at the detective's words. "Who are you, again?"

"Richards. Gavin Richards." He held up the badge again. "I have a few questions..."

"The police have already been here," Mr Gordon interrupted him hurriedly. "I think we've answered all their questions. No one in this household had anything to do with her murder. I can assure you of that."

"I'll assure myself of that," Sherlock replied with a slight smile. "Are things good with the wife, Mr Gordon? It seems you and she are sleeping in separate rooms. Never a good sign I imagine. Was it Mina? No, wait, don't answer that," he interjected sharply when the man made an attempt to cut him off. "It wasn't her. Someone outside the house. If your wife had suspected the maid, she would have gotten rid of her. Ah, and as the tide turns there she is. Hello Ms Gordon. Please join us."

Mr Gordon flung his head to the side to see his wife emerge from behind him. From below, John could only watch the scene play out as if he was a movie goer watching moving images on a screen.

Mrs Gordon was a handsomer woman than her husband with black curls and bright emerald eyes. She was not at tall, but her slim frame seemed to make her taller. Her eyes flashed with anger as she met her husband's gaze. "John, what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, please, let's not go through this again. I know none of your family is implicated in this mess, not directly in any case, but I need to know everything I can about Mina Weathers, and for that I need you. Both of you will do and tell Allen to join us as well. Scorned lovers are always the best. Now, which room is Mina's?"

Neither replied, hesitating. In their pause, Sherlock's mind raced at breakneck speed. "She didn't live here, then. Daytime only. She had a life outside this. Fantastic. Much better. So what about her effects? Surely she had some possessions here. A woman never leaves everything in one place. This was her second home for what…four...no…five years? Five years." He took a breath. "You can respond now?"

Silence played out for a few seconds before Allen finally replied. "Yeah, five years."

Sherlock glanced at him, amusement playing in his eyes. "Thank you," he replied, sarcasm seeping through.

"Who the hell are you again?" Ms Gordon sputtered, seemingly on the verge of blowing a fuse as some would say.

Sherlock grinned knowingly, but did not reply.

Below, John felt his stomach crawl uncomfortably. He could only imagine what the detective would do next.

C H A P T E R S I X

They'd learned quite a bit. Leaving the house, they knew that she was recently divorced with two young children. They'd also gotten her address and Sherlock had even managed to find a few of her possessions while the owners of the house were distracted.

"You tore them apart," John commented coolly as they clambered into a cab. "You just…I've never seen you so vicious."

Sherlock was quiet for a second. "I told you, John. I warned you what would happen. There's still time to back out."

John shook his head. "No…Sherlock, they're just innocent people caught up in Moriarty's game. You didn't need to…you shouldn't have…"

"Innocent people," Sherlock scoffed as he passed the cabbie Mina's address. "Please. He's been having an affair for the past year. She's been taking bribes for longer. Together they've ruined more lives than some murderers I've put behind bars. They're born liars. Do you know how to take down liars?"

The question was a rhetoric one, but John took pain to answer anyway. "Pretend to be a dick like you?"

Sherlock's eyes were dark and annoyed as they turned to stare at the doctor. "When I have Moriarty caught, will you still complain about me being a dick?"

John hesitated for a second. It was a good question. He had a good answer. "When I see Moriarty behind bars, I'll let you know."

Sherlock laughed suddenly. It was not because he found John's response amusing as a reply, but rather the sentence in its entirety. "Do you really think bars can hold Moriarty?"

John looked confused. "What do you intend to do with them then, once you've caught him?"

There was no reply from the great detective, and as the seconds dragged on, John came to the realization that there would never be one. The silence worried him. What would Sherlock do if he came face to face with Moriarty again?

As the silence dragged on, a ringing noise erupted from Sherlock's coat pocket. Looking frustrated, he pulled it out. "Of course," he murmured. "Took longer than I expected." Answering it, a scowl formed on his face. "Whatever I do, it always proves helpful." There was a pause, during which Sherlock's scowl slipped into a look of anxiety, and then a pensive smile. "Where? If you want me. Of course."

Something had happened. "What is it?"

"Change of plans," Sherlock replied, sounding nearly excited. "There's been another one."

**A.N. So, thoughts? Is it interesting enough? Is Sherlock still in character? Where is all this going to lead? You might not know, but I do…HEE!HEE!HEE! **

**Read along my lovelies. And leave a review if the spirit moves you so.**

**Love, **

**Faith Rivens**


	8. Chapter Seven

**A.N. Another chapter in less than a week. It seems a miracle. Perhaps it is. **

**Still no reviews. Ah, my heart grows heavy. I really do hope you're all still enjoying it. I can't really know anymore.**

Chapter Seven:

In broad daylight, the second body seemed even worse for wear than the first, though at second glance John could see there was real reason left. There was hardly anything left of this corpse. The face, really, was the only thing still seemingly intact, though the eyes and tongue had been removed. Still, the rest of her body had suffered the most.

Taking deep breaths, John forced himself to look away. He had dealt with death for so many years, but this case would take the life from him, he was certain of it.

Sherlock, however, remained impervious as he bent over the thing that had once been woman. "Is this all that was found?" he asked Lestrade, his gaze never moving from the corpse.

Lestrade nodded, seeming equally perturbed by the scene before him. He was ashen, paler than usual, and e even John was observant enough to see the trembling in his hands. Wiping his forehead with a napkin, he let out a deep breath before brining himself to reply. "One of the residents found her this morning in the trash. Poor bloke can't even talk." He looked over to where a boy sat breathing into an oxygen tank; he couldn't have been older than 20. "We dug through the rubbish, but this…there was nothing else."

Sherlock, blind as always to the troubles of others, stood up taller to examine the entire scene. "Garbage, today? He put her here so she wouldn't be found till after. I'm sure under closer examination," he glanced quickly at John, "we'll find that she's been dead about three days."

"Three days?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock nodded. "Three days. She was killed first, but he wanted us to find her second. These people only use this trash the day it's to be picked up. He knew she would be waiting here a while. Have you had any other missing people's reports in the past 72 hours?"

Lestrade paused, considering. "I can't be sure. I'll have Donovan check it out." He called over the woman who threw a disgruntled look at Sherlock before hurrying off to fulfil his wish.

"Did you find anything else with it?" Sherlock asked next.

Lestrade did not reply right away. "Might have, but I'm not going to tell you."

Sherlock's confusion was evident in his eyes alone, his facial features remaining cold. "Why not?"

"Because you and I need to set some guidelines. I can't have you running around terrorizing important government officials like that. He wants you sacked off the force, Sherlock. What do you think he'll say when I tell him you're not even on the force?"

"I don't care really," Sherlock replied, pushing this point away as if it was a bothersome bee. "What did you find?"

Lestrade looked to John for help. "Can you not talk sense into him?"

"You know Sherlock, do you think I can talk sense into him?"

"I do hope you realize Sherlock is right here and can hear everything you're saying," the detective spoke out suddenly. "I don't need babysitters. Everything I do takes us one step closer to catching the monster behind this. So once again, what did you find?"

Lestrade remained firm, though. "Not until you promise that you won't interrogate people without my permission. I need to know what you're doing so I don't sound like a bumbling fool when they come to complain to my department. I'm on your side, Sherlock. This isn't about hindering you, it's about helping you."

"I don't need your help," Sherlock reminded him roughly. "You need mine."

"More than I care to admit," Lestrade conceded, sighing heavily. Rubbing his face with his hands, he chortled half-heartedly. "Two murders found within hours of each other and God alone knows if another woman's out there waiting to be found."

"One is definitely on the verge of being killed. And I need your cooperation if you want me to stop it. If you don't care for my methods, then I will take my leave of you."

The thought seemed even more disturbing to Lestrade who took no time to ponder the words, but in a rather defeated voice, assented. "Just come to me for addresses and information. At least pretend to work in tandem with us."

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly. "Now, the letter?"

"Right, but…wait!" Lestrade stared at him incredulously. "How'd you know it was a letter?"

Sherlock's grin said it all. _Incompetent lot. No understanding of the human mind. What fickle beings! _"Because I know Moriarty well. Now, hand it over."

But now it was Lestrade's turn to smile. "It's not for you."

Sherlock's eyebrows narrowed curiously. "Not for me? Then who?"

Slipping the manila envelope out of his pocket, Lestrade held it out to John, his gaze never fleeing the detective's. "Doctor John Watson."

John stared at the envelope incredulously. "Me? Okay." He took it, holding it carefully, almost afraid that it was a ticking bomb, seconds from going off. "I don't understand. Why me?"

"I suppose you'll have to open it to find out," Lestrade suggested, sounding incredibly curious.

John looked to Sherlock, but the detective was strangely quiet, his gaze averted to the corpse on the ground. He moved away from the pair, in slow, calculated steps, lost in thought.

Slightly concerned, he ripped into the envelope, pulling out the piece of paper inside with haste. Perusing its contents, cold gripped unrelenting at his heart.

_Good morning Doctor Watson,_

_I hope your injury is healing well. A broken arm and a few cracked ribs; it's amazing you're up and about after only a month. And yet, there's something even more amazing to consider, isn't there?_

_You would think that nearly getting blown up would change your perception of certain people or a certain person. Yet, you still walk in the shadow of the incomparable Sherlock Holmes. I would say he's blackmailing you, but then I've seen the way you look at him, seen the things you would do for him and it strikes me that maybe your reasons are more internally placed. _

_I should warn you, though. Those who play with fire, often get burned._

_Cliché. Oh well. Sherlock is bound to burn, and you will burn with him if you don't smarten up. So take this as a friendly warning. You don't want to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. Find another man to satisfy your love life, Doctor Watson. Because as far as I'm concerned, there won't be a Sherlock Holmes for much longer. And I can only imagine the distress it will cause you then. Stop putting your trust in the wrong man. Trusting him, is like trusting me. So save yourself what pain you can and let go of this sick obsession. Let go of Sherlock Holmes._

_Love. xo_

He read it again, the second glance through causing anger to rise up in his chest. A note only Moriarty could have written, but it could not be him. He was dead, he had to be dead. He glanced to Sherlock, but his back was to him.

Lestrade was watching him with concern, wondering what could have shaken the good doctor. He would not press him for any answer beyond its usefulness to the case, only because he knew it would prove futile in garnering a response.

"Anything of importance?"

John shook his head, his throat dry. "No." His eyes still bored into Sherlock's back, willing the detective to turn around.

"Does he leave a name?"

John shook his head again. "No."

Sherlock turned then, but his eyes would not meet John's. "I've seen all I had to see. When you know her identity and address you can send it to me. I'll be paying her family a visit. Warning enough for you." He did not wait for a reply, but swept past the detective inspector and John, intent on finding a cab.

John watched him go, but did not pursue. He could tell that Sherlock did not want to be in a cab with him. Truthfully, he did not want to be confined with the detective either.

The letter alone was not enough to convince him to simply drop his relationship with Sherlock. If anything, it strengthened his need to stay by the detective's side. Whoever was playing this game—Moriarty or other—was focused on achieving only one goal: seeing Sherlock dead.

C H A P T E R S E V E N

Sherlock retreated into his mind for the duration of the trip back to 221B Baker Street. There was too much for him to consider to bother himself with paying attention to the world around him. Not only the case now, but Moriarty's own intentions.

The letter John had received had piqued his curiosity. What could the criminal genius have possibly written to John? What had he wanted John to know? What was the purpose? Because there had to be a purpose. There had to be.

And what had John's expression been? Striding past him he'd seen concern, but it had not been concern of self. So concern for who? His first thought was Sarah. It was evident now that the two were in a relationship. Moriarty no doubt had knowledge of that. Who else? Harry? A sister, one he was not quite fond of, but still someone to hold as a threat? And if not them? The next name was one he did not want to contemplate. _Oh, John_, he thought. _You fool. What has Moriarty said to you?_

"We're here, sir," the cabbie called to him suddenly, breaking through the barriers of his mind.

Sherlock said nothing as he walked out, and entered into the warmth of 221. Climbing the steps, he could hear Mrs Hudson calling his name, but he did not stop to listen until he came into his flat where, to his surprise he found Mycroft seated in a chair, waiting for him.

Mrs Hudson came up beside him. "I was trying to tell you," she insisted, looking slightly out of breath. "He said it was important. I tried to stop him.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson, you can leave now," Mycroft spoke up from where he sat, twirling his cane. "Sherlock's a grown boy. He doesn't need you to hold his hand."

Sherlock scowled. He had wanted at least a few more minutes of silence before John's inevitable arrival. "I think you should leave, Mycroft."

"I've waited almost an hour for you, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke up firmly. "I'll not be leaving without having a chat."

"Fine,"

Shrugging off his coat, he moved to the couch and threw himself down on it, lying fully across it. "Talk and I will promise to pretend to listen."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Mycroft roll his eyes in frustration. "Sherlock, please."

"You've already heard about the case, yes? Sherlock spoke out, sitting up suddenly. "Did Mr Gordon call you up to complain about a man named Richards, a man who hasn't worked for you in a year? Were you smart enough to figure out it was me, or did you need Lestrade's help to figure it out?"

Their gazes met, the brothers locked themselves in a silent conflict.

"You're not being careful," Mycroft looked away first, focusing on his cane. "You haven't learned your lesson."

"I have no choice in the matter, Mycroft, so don't think for a second you can change me with a dire warning of death and destruction. I know what I'm doing." When Mycroft did not immediately respond, Sherlock focused his regard, trying to pick up on the bigger reason for his presence. "Do you have a case for me?" he inquired, noting the ink on his fingers.

"No."

"Did you know either woman?" he tried again, taking into account the lines of weariness under his eyes.

"Either? There are two dead?"

Frustrated, Sherlock formed the next few explanations in his head, knocking aside the weak ones until nothing remained. Mycroft would not have come all this way to simply chide him. A text would have done the same, would have had the same effect. "So why are you here?"

Before a response could be given, the door below slammed open and the sound of footsteps storming up the steps quickly echoed next.

"Sherlock? We need to talk."

John flew through the door a few seconds later, though he came to a jolting halt upon seeing Mycroft seated in the chair he normally occupied. "I…Mycroft? What brings you here?"

"A matter that escapes my brother's supposed all-knowing prowess," Mycroft replied as he stood then. He looked quickly to Sherlock, but the detective was lying once more upon the couch, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above. "My purpose Sherlock will remain unknown to you until you take the initiative and pull yourself from this case."

"Let it remain unknown then," Sherlock replied, his eyes closing, the conversation done.

As Mycroft left, John moved fully into the room, taking the seat once occupied. "What was that about?"

"Mycroft hopes to frustrate me with a mystery."

"Is he succeeding?"

"No. Nothing can frustrate me now."

Their voices lapsed for no more than a moment, John considering how best to approach the next matter. Sherlock, meanwhile, was doing the same.

"So, Moriarty has written to you too?" he spoke up before John could.

"If you say so."

Sherlock grinned, sitting up again. In his mind, he already knew its contents. It fascinated him. "He's warned you, told you to leave me, told you not to trust me."

"Yes," John replied without fighting to deny it, no longer surprised that Sherlock knew everything. "It seems like he doesn't want me getting hurt."

"It's strange indeed. I can't imagine why considering the last time you met he strapped you to a bomb," Sherlock mused. "May I see the letter?"

Knowing the detective would get his hand on it whether or not he gave his permission, John handed it over. Glancing through it, Sherlock's face was a mask of emotions, his gaze unreadable. When done, he closed his eyes, pressing his hands to his face. "Curious, indeed." His eyes opened wide. "Our relationship, John…it is purely platonic…"

"Oh God." He'd forgotten about the letter's blatant accusation. "We're friends. Just friends. I'm perfectly content with that."

"The letter suggests otherwise."

"It's just another attempt to bother me." His face was burning red, he realized. Moriarty—if it was him—was at least succeeding at that point.

Sherlock seemed hardly affected as he stared back at the letter. "And what do you intend to do about it?"

"Are you asking me if I'm planning on leaving?"

"Yes."

John's pause had not been foreseen. In his mind, he had been certain that the answer would be no, but as he contemplated it now, there was something pulling at his mind, trying to convince it otherwise. Severing ties with Sherlock Holmes would mean security for himself and Sarah, it would mean living without fear. But would it be worth it?

"You are planning on leaving?"

"No," John promised quickly. If anything was keeping him anchored to the detective, keeping him held to this place and this chase, it was that he did perceive Sherlock to be a friend he could not consider losing, a man he had too much respect for, too much concern for to just abandon to save himself the pain that would no doubt come for him in the future. "I'm not."

A quick smile passed over Sherlock's face. "I wouldn't mind…"

"I'm not leaving. Not yet."

Nodding, Sherlock placed the letter aside. "Good."

Nothing else, they fell to silence, Sherlock careful not to share any more thoughts with John on the matter. _Why would Moriarty urge John to leave unless he thought that in some form it would help to destroy me?_ Most fascinating indeed.

As the moments dragged on in awkward silence, John shifted uncomfortably where he sat. Outside, rain clouds were gathering, bringing darkness early to London. He watched it build for a few moments as raindrops began to fall lightly across the window pane.

"Has Lestrade gotten back with any information?"

"Not yet," Sherlock replied as he continued to let the information roll over him.

Another pause. John reached for the newspaper laid across the table. "They don't mention the girl in here."

"Tomorrow it will a top feature. Two murders, two women, both mangled. I'm sure the significance of it doesn't escape you."

"A modern day Jack the Ripper?" John enquired. "You think… oh God." He had not contemplated the possibility yet. "But why?"

Sherlock took a pause before replying. "A serial killer who was never caught. Moriarty is taunting me, sending me a message. I am untouchable," he hissed.

The dark fury in Sherlock's eyes was unsettling. Luckily, in that moment, Sherlock's phone began to chirp.

"Excellent." He flung it out. A message from Lestrade.

_Katelyn Mirark. Lives with boyfriend, Alexander Graham. 34 Hilton Road._

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock murmured, sliding the phone back into his pocket. Standing, he reached for his coat, throwing it on while John watched on in silent wonder.

"Are we going then?"

Turning to the doctor, Sherlock grinned. "I'm glad you've decided to stay. There are two places to hit. Which do you want?"

C H A P T E R S E V E N

John had ultimately chosen the new case, aware that Sherlock was far more interested in facing a divorcee than a live-in boyfriend.

"Divorce means issues, problems, some juicy secret waiting to be found. Romance is boring."

Sherlock's reasoning might have convinced the detective, but John was far less certain. _Finding a romance yourself and then come back and tell me the same thing_. The image of Sherlock in a relationship was an amusing one to come to mind. She would have to be some kind of woman to deal with Sherlock.

Pushing this thought from his mind, he rang the bell at 34 Hilton Road, waiting patiently for the boyfriend to come calling. A question struck him as he stood there waiting. Was Alexander Graham aware that his girlfriend was dead, or was he to be charged with passing along that particular blow?

The answer was evident when nearly a minute later, a red faced man appeared at the door. "Sherlock Holmes?"

So Lestrade had warned him. John bit his lip. He was lucky to not have to deal with Sherlock.

"No, John Watson. I'm here on Sherlock's behalf," he responded, then chided himself for being insensitive. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"They…they told me to talk to you first before going to…to…"He was blubbering.

_Oh so very lucky Sherlock isn't here, _John thought to himself as he waited for the man to gain control of his emotions. "I can come back, if you prefer."

"No. Come in, please," he insisted.

John followed him to a small den. It seemed a mess, as though someone had gone on a rampage.

"Sorry for the mess, I just…" Alexander thought better of it. "Sit, please. I'll be just a mo'."

As the man fled the room, John came to the conclusion that he was genuinely affected by the death of his girlfriend, and not just putting on an act. No one could that be good…except, maybe, Sherlock.

Finding a seat among the wreckage, John took note of photos spewed across the room. She'd been a beautiful woman, this Katelyn character, really gorgeous. He was trying to be observant, but for some reason, he was struck by her appearance, amazed by how young and vibrant she was. And now she was nothing more than a pile of discarded parts. _Shit._

"Sorry about that." Returning, Alexander seemed to have better control of himself, his eyes partially dry, his face washed down. "What can I do to help?"

John took a brief second to consider the best way to approach this discussion. "How old was Katelyn?"

"She's almost 30. July coming she'll…she would have…" His resolve wavered.

"And you and she…"

"Going on six years." His hand fell suddenly to his pant pocket. "I was…"

This was wrong. So very wrong. John watched helplessly as the man fell into another fit of tears. He could only hope the poor bloke Sherlock was questioning was not suffering as much.

**A.N. ANY THOUGHTS? ANYTHING AT ALL? Please, someone let me know. I don't want to give up on this story, but I might if I don't think this is being appreciated. I don't want to waste my time on a story that no one actually likes. I'd rather put it into things people love. Sorry, but it has to be so.**

**Still love always,**

**Faith**


	9. Chapter Eight

**A.N. Another chapter. A short one, I think by my standards, but hopefully an enjoyable one nonetheless. A few of the elements in here were inspired by events of the second season as I'm sure some of you will be aware—don't worry, no spoilers though.**

**Thank you so much to SillyMongoose, bbmcowgirl and CaptainThetaSherlock for leaving such lovely reviews. It did my heart a great kindness and I appreciate you taking the time to share your opinion. I hope this chapter appeases you. **

**Read on and enjoy :D**

Chapter Eight:

In fact, Mina's ex-husband was not suffering nearly as much emotionally. It struck Sherlock that the man, tall and lean with chestnut hair and stark cerulean eyes was hardly perturbed by the news that the woman he'd once been married too was dead.

Answering, the door, he'd ushered Sherlock in without restraint, as if he had nothing to conceal, no dirty secrets to hide.

_Everyone has dirty secrets. Why else would you be divorced?_

Sitting in the den now, a cup of steaming tea placed before him, Sherlock watched the man before him with curious eyes.

"And how long were you two married?"

"Four years. We divorced only a few months ago," Greg Loens replied calmly.

Sherlock glanced around the room. Any pictures of Mina Weathers had been removed, though many on the walls contained the image of the same two girls, each one a moment captured at different stages of their life.

"You had to two daughters?"

Greg shook his head.

"No, of course not," Sherlock mused. "They were hers. But they weren't yours. Interesting. One's ten and one's six, am I right?"

"How do you…"

Sherlock gestured at the photos. "You love these girls, have their pictures all over the wall, but none depict only the eldest before the second one was born, and even the second one doesn't have a baby picture up. I can tell you're a photographer by the bag of camera equipment by your couch. So you love these girls and love taking their photos, but don't have a single one of them before the youngest one's second birthday. Conclusion: neither is yours."

Looking well impressed with Sherlock's deductive capacities, Greg leaned back in his seat. "And their ages?"

"You've been married four years. In the oldest of these pictures, the young one can't be more than two. The eldest in that picture is dressed in a uniform. First day of school. She must be six." Sherlock paused, pleased that he'd gotten it right."

The ex-husband was silent for a few seconds. "You really are the best, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Not humble, are we?"

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. "Why should I be humble when I know I'm the best?"

Greg did not have a reply for that. Taking a deep sip of tea, he let out a heavy breath. "What else can I tell you?"

"Why did you divorce her?"

There was another pause. This time, Greg fingered the wedding ring still on his finger. Perhaps he was more affected than he wanted to show.

"You still wear your band?"

Greg followed his gaze. "I loved her, Mr Holmes. Four years ago, I married her and I thought, she was bound to be the one."

_Boring._

"So why did you leave her? Find another love to take her place?" He knew that was not the answer to all this. If he had been the reason for the divorce, he would not have taken custody of the girls. It was her. But what had she done?

"No, she did, though," Greg replied, sounding suddenly distraught. "When I learned she had two daughters, I was wary of what I was getting into, and then I met those angels and my heart couldn't say no. I loved them as if they were my own. It didn't matter that they belonged to someone else. And then, six months ago, I got a call from the doctor asking when Mina would be coming by for her first ultrasound. She was pregnant, Mr Holmes. She was pregnant with a baby, and I knew it wasn't mine."

_Much better._

Sherlock leaned forward. She'd been six months along, but he'd been blind to the truth of it. How? "Who's baby was it?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't say. She told me it didn't matter. She was wrong. It did matter. She'd been slipping away from me for a year before that, hardly ever home, claiming to work late shifts. I knew it wasn't true. I had called the Gordons once looking for her and they'd told me she'd been gone for almost two hours. She was with someone else, Mr Holmes, and yet I still loved her."

"But still you divorced her?"

Grey took another large breath. "She was hurting those girls, forgetting about them. She was no mother. I had to take them away. I had to."

_And back to boring._

Sherlock sat back again. "Did she abort the baby?"

Greg nodded, and tears began to form in his eyes. "I would have raised that child too. But she didn't want it, and she got rid of it. And so, I got rid of her. She didn't fight it, didn't even fight me wanting to keep the girls for myself. She just gave up."

_Why, though? Why would she give up?_

"Do you have anything of hers here?"

"Only the girls."

Sherlock frowned. This conversation was over. "Do you have her new address?"

C H A P T E R E I G H T

Leaving Alexander Graham to his sorrows, John rang up Sherlock. He got the answering machine.

"Hey, I just finished here. The man's a wreck. Where are you?"

He hoped a reply would come sooner rather than later, but as the minutes slipped by, he soon began to realize that it would not be the case. Calling a cab, he decided to continue his own pursuit of information., passing the man the address of Katelyn's older brother, the only family—according to Alexander—that she had left. On the way, he sent the detective a text, stating his current destination, and urging him for a reply.

It had taken several minutes for Alexander to fully calm down and manage to tell John about his girlfriend, the up and coming business woman at a big firm. She'd had plenty of potential, _all the right stuff_ as her employer liked to say. She'd been perfect, not a smudge on her record. She'd had ambitions, was hoping to go into government. Sherlock would have eaten the man alive.

Only one fact had interested John, and that was the matter of Katelyn's late night walks.

"Three, maybe four times a week, she would venture out after a long day of work to clear her head. I never went with her. This past year I got the night shift. Maybe, if I'd been with her…"

Their conversation had ordered there for good, the man hardly able to utter another syllable as sobs wracked his body, once more.

As the cab rolled on, John continued to throw anxious glances at his phone, wondering what was keeping Sherlock so busy that he could type a simple response. It did not take too long to get to the brother's house, and as the cab came to a slow halt, it struck John that they were not too far off from 221B Baker Street.

Ascending the steps to the apartment building his phone began to buzz.

"Finally," he sighed.

_Meet you at 221B._

"Sherlock." He shook his head. Well, it was at least a reply, as empty as it sounded.

Buzzing the number of Carlson Mirark's flat, John waited patiently for nearly four minutes before deciding that the man would not be coming. "Really?"

He would walk to 221B then. Paying for a cab would make no sense at that instant. As he walked, he called up Lestrade, hoping he had some idea as to where he could find the victim's brother.

"We tried to contact him earlier," Lestrade informed him, sounding rather harried as he did. "He's not answering his mobile, either. If we reach him, I'll let you know. Normally I'd take a disappearance as important in finding the guilty party, but…" A heavy sigh followed. "I need him to work with me, John."

"I know."

There was no goodbye, just a click to signal the end of their rather brief conversation. The detective inspector was under more stress than usual. This was not a case Lestrade was willing to deal with, not when Sherlock was so heavily involved.

Sherlock was standing outside 221B when he turned the corner, talking intently to a small woman with stringy blonde hair. As he approached, their words, while still garbled, managed to flood his ears with slightly determinable words.

"…shadows…life…crime." These were Sherlock's intermittent words of speech.

The woman was shaking her head. As John drew closer, she turned warily in his direction, her eyes narrowed.

His eyes never leaving the woman, Sherlock slid a bill into her open palm and dismissed her with a heavy sigh.

"Homeless network?" John enquired.

Sherlock replied with a mere nod as the two returned to the safety of 221B Baker Street.

"Have they seen Moriarty?"

A shake was the response he offered, not saying anything more to that respect. "They didn't see the murder, either," Sherlock reported. "But their eyes are opened wide, as are their pockets."

"They're fortunate you have a generous hand."

Sherlock seemed too distracted to respond as he fell upon his couch, and pulled open his laptop. The reflection of the screen upon his face made him seem paler than usual, almost ghost-like. "Did you discover anything interesting about Katelyn Mirark?" he asked, as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

It was John's turn to shake his head. "She was working for a big insurance firm, but hoped to go into politics. Her boyfriend was hoping to propose to her. Her record is spotless. The only thing of possible interest is that she liked to take long walks at night alone to clear her head which would have made her an easy target."

"And her family?"

"She had a brother, but he seems to be MIA at the moment."

Sherlock looked up with sudden interest. "On the run, is he?"

"You think he might be…"

"Our perpetuator?" Sherlock finished, disregarding it. "No. Moriarty is suspect numero uno. So the question remains…"

John hesitated as he realized Sherlock was expecting him to fill in the blanks. "Why is he running?" he offered questioningly.

Sherlock nodded. "What does he know? Why is he worried the police will be coming for him? Is he worried the police will come for him, or is there somebody else, someone he fears? Brilliant." Pleased, he bent back over the laptop, his grin appearing menacing in the light of the screen.

For a few moments, John watched him. "Did you discover anything?" he asked after a while.

"The maid was American and pregnant with a baby who did not belong to her husband who already was not the father of her children. And yet, your news still proves to be more fascinating than my own."

"So, no connection?"

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "Not yet, but…" He let the word drag on as he stared in anticipation at his screen. Blinking once, he leaned in, his eyes quickly scanning the screen with wild intent. "No," he grumbled, sitting back in frustration as his search proved futile. "No connection there."

"What were you…?"

"A list of names in the Gordons' contact file. Katelyn Mirark is nowhere to be found amongst them, no Alexander Graham, and no Mirark of any sort. Dead end."

John stared at the detective, puzzled. "How'd you….never mind." He shook his head. So, what do we do now?"

Sherlock's gaze was piercing as he faced John. "At present, we wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"For Moriarty to make his next move," Sherlock responded, his voice empty as he rested his head back, closing his eyes to the world.

John's expression was one of miscomprehension as he kept starting at the detective. "You're just going to let him kill another woman? Why?"

Sherlock's head jolted up. "What did you say?"

"You're not even going to…?"

"No, you're exact words," Sherlock interjected impatiently.

John forced himself to concentrate, a task that proved rather difficult as an admonishment burned on the edge of his tongue. "You're just going to let him kill another woman? Why?"

"A woman," Sherlock repeated, a slow grin forming on his face. "Why do you think it will be a woman?"

John shrugged, still upset with the feeling that Sherlock was not putting all he could into the case. "Because, the first two were."

Sherlock frowned, as if disappointed with his reply. "Is that it?"

"Well, you also mentioned the correlation to Jack the Ripper, but…"

"This game, John; it's a cruel one," Sherlock interjected suddenly. "Can you see it?"

Taken aback by this sudden statement, John paused a moment before providing a reply. "Oh, yes. Yes I can." His tone was rife with anger as he did. _A cruel game between two brilliant minds certain to leave a wreck of innocents in their wake_. "I know how you intend to deal with it Sherlock, but…you don't have to become cruel in the meanwhile."

Sherlock's eyes were a mask of emotion, the greyness of them piercing. "Do you believe me to be cruel, John?"

The doctor offered no response and was saved the pain of trying to as Sherlock's phone began to buzz. "Can't be," John muttered, shaking his head in distraught. "Shit."

Pulling it from his pocket, Sherlock scowled. He shoved it back in and lay on his back once more. "Mycroft," he murmured before John could ask the question.

"Are you really not going to do anything?"

Sherlock sighed with great impatience. "I'm trying to think," he grumbled. "I'm going to escape into my mind palace, and I don't want to be disturbed."

"Your mind what?"

"Mind palace," Sherlock repeated without glancing his way. "It's my way of storing information that can prove to be useful. Just don't disturb me," he finished in a sharp tone. "It's imperative you leave me be if you want me to…"

"Yeah, alright," John cut him off, hearing the insult waiting to fly from the detective's lips. "I'll just leave you, shall I?"

"That would be best."

John bit his lip, restraining any possible reply as he stormed from the room, taking the steps to his room above. It was a small room, but in a comforting way. His bed was pushed against one wall, a desk against the other. Mahogany, it contained his laptop and a stack of papers related to his job at the medical centre. It reminded him that he would be working there come Monday, which would render him incapable of keeping an eye on Sherlock in the midst of this mess. It was not something he was anticipating.

He turned to his blog as he waited for Sherlock to come to some epiphany, deciding to try typing up what he dubbed _The Great Game_. He wanted to remark upon it, about how Sherlock had masterfully solved five cases before finding himself in a stalemate with the criminal mastermind: Jim Moriarty, and about the bomb. He could, however, find the right words to say it and the more he wrote, the more he realized he was not doing it the justice it deserved.

Two hours passed, and finally he could take it no more. He slammed shut the laptop in frustration before falling onto his bed, watching the ceiling above him in mock concentration. It was late, almost ten. Another woman might be meeting her end tonight, and they were doing nothing about it.

Minutes passed, and he let himself just think about the case, trying to figure it out on his own. He had no real hope in himself, but doing nothing was driving him insane.

One a maid, the other a businesswoman. One unfaithful, the other in possession of a bright future with a kind man. The latter had been prone to taking long walks. Perhaps she had not been taking walks though. Perhaps she had issues of fidelity too.

He shot up then, sitting at attention. Perhaps there was some connection. But surely Sherlock…still, it was worth a shot. And if the detective was still lost in his mind palace? Well, he would face the consequences of that when it came to it.

There were, however, no consequences to be faced. The detective was not on the couch when he came down. He was gone. But where?

"Mrs Hudson?"

John rushed down the steps to the landlady, hoping that Sherlock was with her. He was, however, not there, though Mrs Hudson was able to shed some light on the matter.

"He popped out nearly an hour ago now, dear," she told him. "He seemed to be in a hurry."

John sighed heavily. "Did he say anything?"

She shook her head anxiously. "Is everything okay between the two of you? Have another domestic?" She gave John no time to reply, as her motherly instincts took over. "Can I offer you some tea and biscuits while we wait for him to come back?"

John declined her offer, explaining that they were not fighting, but that Sherlock was probably just working some angle of the case, before wishing her a good night.

Returning to the flat, he began to ponder on where Sherlock could be headed and what conclusion he might have reached. A first thought, was that Mycroft had come at him with something, but that seemed highly unlikely. The only other possibility was that Lestrade had offered him some news of interest.

Texting Sherlock first, he hoped a reply would not be long coming. While waiting, he called up Lestrade.

Sally answered the phone. It surprised him to hear her voice on the other line as he enquired after the detective inspector.

"He can't come to the phone right now," she told him, her voice cold. "We have a serial killer on our hands in case you didn't know. What do you need?"

John hesitated, not wanting to ask his question now, hearing the biting tone of the sergeant on the other line. He did anyway.

"Did Lestrade call Sherlock in?"

"No, as far as I know," Sally's voice was rougher as she replied. "We don't need to turn to him all the time, you know. Is he missing, then?"

John wanted nothing more than to hang up, but could not bring himself to do it. "He just left quickly. I thought maybe he had gotten news."

"Like I said, I don't think so." She didn't sound frustrated anymore, more pensive than anything. "But maybe I know where he's gone."

"Really?" This surprised him. He had not thought Sally to be a good enough acquaintance of Sherlock's to be able to guess his whereabouts. "Where?"

"Out killing and mangling some poor woman," she replied, her voice so frigid, it sounded ready to break. "Have you considered that he's the one doing this? Holed up for a month, he probably got bored of waiting for someone to do something and so took the initiative. I warned you, remember. Maybe it's time you think long and hard on it."

She hung up then before he could utter a single word in Sherlock's defence. His heart felt as though it was being strangled by fingers, his stomach suddenly tied in knots. It was not that he believed her words…he didn't. He knew better than to believe Sherlock was to blame for this murder, right?

There was doubt in him, though, and he hated himself for letting it exist even in its smallest form, and hated Sally Donovan even more for having put it there.

**A.N. So, thoughts? Questions? Suggestions? You know the drill. **

**I just want to apologize really quickly first. I don't want to seem like a tyrant by asking for reviews. I only do so because I want to know if people are still interested in what I'm writing and to help guide my own writing. I have the entire story outlined, but I'm eager to change things up if people feel that a different direction might make more sense.**

**Next chapter: Sherlock versus Molly, John versus Sherlock, and a body found by a river that sends the detective spiralling out of control. **


	10. Chapter Nine

**A.N. Here is the next chapter. I hope it's a bit more exciting than the last. It's not at full potential, but we are building towards some true action, I can promise you that.**

**Thanks for the reviews and alerts. I am glad to see that you still find this enjoyable. I hope I can keep it up.**

**Thank you especially to CaptainThetaSherlock and HowlynMad for the reviews. This chapter is for you.**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Nine:

Sherlock hardly flinched as his phone buzzed for a third time. John was chasing him, but he had no will to fight with the doctor. He needed time alone and away from human life. He hoped to find some clue wandering the streets, wished for some enlightenment to open his eyes to the game Moriarty had forced him into. Already, John was beginning to doubt him, beginning to doubt his ability to stay sane. And how was he supposed to convince John otherwise that he already knew a third woman was already dead, and that, by morning, the call would come from Lestrade, beseeching him to come?

The connection between the two—soon to be three—he knew too. Or, rather, he believed he did. And why shouldn't he be right about it, when he was right about everything else?

His phone was ringing now. He glanced at it, almost willing it to be Lestrade. It was not him, though. The number was Mycroft's. _No, thank you very much._

He hastily put it away. His brother was an enigma as usual. Only ever interested in contacting Sherlock when he needed a case solved, this pursuit seemed to be of a different nature, one he could not quite place, and one he had no time to chase after.

A few more steps and the phone rang again. _Damned contraption_. This time it was Lestrade.

His frustration changed to elation. "Where is she?"

"What? Sherlock, where are you? John called looking for you. Seems to think you've gone rogue." Lestrade's exasperation was evident even over this distance. "Did you find something?"

Sherlock scowled. "No. And you didn't either?"

"No…"

Hanging up abruptly, Sherlock continued to walk in sweeping gaits as he came to the alley where Mina Weathers had been found mutilated. He gazed around the place, taking note of every missing flagstone, ever possible detail. But nothing stood to gain him any more knowledge.

The second body had been found exactly forty blocks from here. Why forty? He glanced at the surrounding houses. Why here? Why there? Why?

Moriarty had promised not to make this simple and he was succeeding rather well in making Sherlock dance. "Damned man," he whispered to the wind as he began to make his way to the spot where Katelyn Mirark had been found.

Time seemed to fade as he walked. Moriarty was killing women, mangling them and leaving him a trail of their dead corpses. To win, he would have to successfully know who Moriarty planned to kill next and when he would strike. If he could do that, he would catch the man and victory, sweet victory, would be his. And if there was more to it than that?

What if Moriarty left him a definitive clue in hope that he would stumble upon it and find him and draw him back into battle? He would not put a plan such a man. All he could do was embrace the idea, allowing it to excite him. What a true test that would be.

Darkness had long fallen completely over London, and the stars were now veiled from sight by ominous black clouds as he reached Katelyn Mirark's last resting place.

Pulling out his torch, he scanned the area, rummaging through the bins where she had been found. But it was not there, like Mina's had not been.

It, in this case, was a mobile. Two women were dead, and both mobiles were missing. Both key to his investigation, their absence was Moriarty's doing. With them, this case might already have been solved. Without them, it became a challenge. _Clever little man._

Convinced that there was nothing to be found, Sherlock clambered from the rubbish and stood in the darkened alley, making a note to inform Lestrade that he would need access to these women's email accounts and wishing for a cigarette.

As he left the alley, his mobile began to ring again. Grumbling, he held it out. Lestrade again.

"Yes, Lestrade."

The voice on the other end was frayed. "We've got another."

"Where?"

The place given, Sherlock called to mind a map of the city, tracing the distance from his position to that of the new body. The conclusion made him breathe deeply in excitement.

Forty blocks.

C H A P T E R N I N E

The text had only stated a place and a single command: _Come!_

It was nearly midnight and yet he was wide awake, sitting up, waiting for the detective. The text—though a clear sign that the man was alive—did more to concern John then comfort him. It was also a sign that someone else was dead.

The cab ride felt excruciatingly long with the absence of Sherlock. The empty silence almost made him want to pick up a conversation with the cabbie. Almost.

Arriving, he found the place abuzz with police officers. Sally stood near the police tape, talking with a man who seemed almost too drunk to stand up all on his own. She glanced at him coldly as he arrived, her eyes watching him as he crossed the tape.

Others were bent over a body lying in the middle of the street. Among them, he recognized Sherlock's tall frame. The detective was standing almost as if at attention while Lestrade talked—or rather, yelled—at him, his arms gesticulating wildly.

"Ah, John," Sherlock exclaimed as he caught sight of the doctor. "Glad to see you weren't asleep."

"How d'you…never mind," John mumbled as his gaze was pulled to the woman below. He suddenly wished he had not come. This woman, unlike the others, was almost perfectly intact save for one undeniable feature: a huge gaping hole in her chest.

Even with just one glance, John knew that her heart had been ripped out. This was made ever more evident when he then noticed that said organ was sticking out of her mouth. "Jesus Christ Almighty." John rubbed his eyes wearily.

"We've already discovered that she's a teacher at Roedean in Sussex. Name: Delilah Huron," Sherlock explained, choosing to ignore John's usual profession of disgust. "Thirty-one, she was declared missing by her husband two hours ago. Apparently, she should have arrived home by train around six. When she wasn't there, he figured there'd been an error. I say he's right." He glanced back at the body. "Being a Saturday night, we can only conclude that she was killed sometime last night. Or so, I'd like to believe."

"How do you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock offered no response to Lestrade's question. "Right, then let us do an autopsy before you make any more brilliant deductions." His tone was one of aggravation as he snapped out his remark.

"John, what's your professional opinion?" Sherlock enquired then of the doctor, turning away from Lestrade.

"I…"

"Don't answer him, John." Lestrade was fierce as he issued his command, his eyes boring into Sherlock's skull. "You can't just take control of this situation, Sherlock."

"And you can't confiscate letters as you do."

"It's addressed to me."

"But it's meant for me," Sherlock growled low, grinding his teeth, his hands clenching tightly in frustration. "Even the one he sent John. He's playing with me through you. Now. Let. Me. See."

Lestrade shook his head, his expression suddenly one of exhaustion. "You are unbelievable." Resigned, he passed over a crumbled sheet of paper.

John watched in silent fascination as Sherlock read through it, a grin slowly spreading across his lips. He looked far too pleased—a sure sign that the letter was proving invaluable in some sense. "Sherlock?"

The detective folded the letter and shoved it at Lestrade. "Take it back," he said sharply.

Lestrade took it, his eyes curious. "And?"

"And what?"

"What does it mean, Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded, his patience wearing extremely thin.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why don't you tell me? It's yours after all."

"Sherlock," John protested, distraught by how poorly the detective was treating Lestrade. Sherlock's eyes fell on him, cold and unfriendly. He hesitated to say anything, unable to hold the gaze that lingered on him. "Just…don't…" he said finally.

Lestrade was fuming, his frustration boiling like a volcano bound to blow. "Tell me," he hissed in a dangerously low voice. "Now."

Sherlock's expression revealed a sudden recognition of the nerve he had hit as his entire being seemed to soften. "He actually signed this one," he said finally. "JR—Jack the Ripper. He's making a point of identifying himself. It's a sign." He glanced at the body at his feet again. "When can I meet the husband?"

"Hang on," Lestrade refrained from answering the question as his own took precedence. "What's it a sign of?"

Sherlock sighed. "That I am right."

"About?"

The glint in Sherlock's eyes as he prepared to respond was one of pride of knowing. "That the connection between these women is much like the one of Jack the Ripper's original victims."

"Which is…?"

"They're prostitutes," John replied before Sherlock could. The detective seemed surprised though, as the shock wore off, a smile crept across his features. "You think they're prostitutes?" John repeated, sounding less than certain. During the hours of Sherlock's absence, he'd done some research on the man, hoping to find some clue to better help him understand. He considered himself a relative Jack the Ripper expert now.

Sherlock's smile broadened. "We live in a modern time now. I think the term call girls is a better choice of words."

"Call girls?" Lestrade sputtered. "A business woman and a teacher. Established women in the UK and you think they're prostitutes?"

"You didn't mention the maid," Sherlock pointed out. "You think it plausible for her to be prostitute? Because she's not established?"

Lestrade withheld a response and John quickly leapt to his defence. "Can you really believe he's stalking call girls just to embrace the whole Jack the Ripper legacy? Maybe he's just trying to trick you into following a false lead."

Sherlock shook his head with determined certainty. "No, believe me. If he thinks to identify him as such, then he knows what he's doing. He's not just doing it to trick us. He has a reason, I know he does."

Lestrade looked less than willing to believe such a statement, though he did not bring up such doubt as he watched Sherlock. "So, what? Are they call girls from the same…what, company? Or different?"

"Same," Sherlock replied and John wondered how he'd come to reach that conclusion.

"And which is that?"

Here Sherlock faltered, a frown creasing his features. "I don't know…yet."

"Which is why you want complete access to their email and phone records." Lestrade arrived at this conclusion with a smirk.

Sherlock nodded. "If you wouldn't mind," he added, as if to help his case, though his voice seeped with mockery.

"As you wish."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent. Now, I assume the husband will come in to identify the body."

"We're sending it to St. Bart's once we're done here…which means once you're done."

"Oh, I'm done," Sherlock informed him pleasantly. "I'll meet it there." With a quick nod of his head, he turned to John. "Care to join me?"

John nodded. "Yes, I think I will." There were a few bones he had left to pick with Sherlock, and large questions he still needed to have answered. "I'll nab us a cab."

C H A P T E R N I N E

He was burning with adrenaline. Finally, this case was going somewhere definitive. True, they were clues left by Moriarty, but that hardly mattered. He had seen the truth of it before having it confirmed by the man himself. He knew what he was pursuing, knew where this chase was leading him. It was an interesting choice on Moriarty's part, this game, these murders. And it was only at a beginning.

John was strangling quiet, quiet in a way that made Sherlock know he had much to say. What precisely, he did not know. In a rare gesture of concern, he prompted John for a confession. "What seems to be on your mind, John?"

"I…" John stammered, seemingly surprised by Sherlock's inquiry. "I had a discussion with Sally Donovan," he replied grimly. "She was developing a theory as to who the murderer might be."

"Of course she was," Sherlock mused. "She thinks it's me, doesn't she?" it was not, in all honesty, surprising. Sally often took occasion to accuse him of such monstrosities. It no longer shocked him, but John seemed rather astonished by it all.

He stumbled over his next sentence. "When we first met, she told me that one day we would find a body and you would be the one who had put it there. I suppose that doesn't surprise you, either?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She likes to label me as a criminal. It makes her feel powerful. But let's discuss the real problem, shall we? You think she might be right."

The alarm that glinted in John's eyes made him feel sudden rising discomfort. He could sense that this conversation would no longer be an easy one. "No, I don't," John answered quickly, though his voice did not carry any honesty.

"But why shouldn't you? It's natural."

"No." John regarded him with angered eyes. "I shouldn't. And I don't like how people are willing to spread lies about you."

"Are they lies?"

John shook his head fiercely. "Don't play mind games with me, Sherlock," he warned crossly. "We're friends and I trust you. You saved my life, even though technically you were the reason I found myself needing to be saved, but even then…" He looked sheepish suddenly. "I believe you to be a good man and you are not Moriarty and you deserve better than for Sally to go behind your back making such remarks." Done, he sat back in his seat and released a long sigh. "Now, I would appreciate it if you forget everything I just said."

Sherlock could not. "You've put too much faith in me, John. I don't deserve it. You should not trust me so." He thought of Moriarty's letter to John, certain the doctor was remembering it now too. The warning to beware had not been misplaced, but John did not seem to share such sentiments.

"Don't say that."

"But it's true."

Their conversation was momentarily called to an end as their cab rolled to a stop before St. Bart's. While John paid the cabbie, Sherlock glanced up at the edifice before him. He hoped she would be there; he had some questions to ask of her.

"Wait up," John called after him as he went. "We've still got time before the body arrives. Our conversation isn't quite done yet."

"I do believe it is," Sherlock corrected him as he continued on. "You have stated your belief and I have stated mine. Let's agree to disagree and move on." He had no wish to continue on with John. He had new things on his mind, new discussions to be pursued with a certain Ms Molly Hooper.

John, however, was persistent. "Sherlock, I've been with you for four months and I know you're not insane. Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?"

"I know I'm not insane," Sherlock corrected him as he swept into the rather empty hospital, John following close behind him. "Donovan and Moriarty are the only ones intent on proving otherwise. All I have to say is that you have to be careful about how much you trust me. Remember what that did for you last time?"

John hesitated behind him, but Sherlock made no attempt to stop and wait for the doctor to think well on his words as he moved to the elevator.

"They can't convince me," John stated firmly as he came to stand beside him. "And neither can you. I know." He sounded certain.

Sherlock said nothing as the lift arrived. Clambering in, he watched as John settled in beside him, seemingly proud, as if he'd overcome some great obstacle. He had no will to fight him. For now, he would leave the doctor to his delusions.

Molly was indeed at the morgue when he arrived. A chance of fate? Or had Lestrade insisted on her being here?

"Are you here, then?"

It had been near a month since Sherlock's last encounter with Molly, an encounter he could only remember as being less than pleasant. Her coolness of form seemed to have remained as she stared him down with unfriendly eyes.

"As are you?"

"Lestrade asked me to come in. I've been performing the autopsies…if I can even call them that." She looked even more angered as she reflected on the bodies that had come into her possession.

Sherlock watched her carefully while John lingered behind the two. "And have you found anything interesting?"

"Besides the missing organs and limbs. I imagine you find that thrilling." Her voice was cynical, very un-Molly like.

"Extremely," Sherlock replied, finding her coldness a sudden impetus for his own frustration. He did not care for her attitude; it was rather off-putting. "Nothing thrills me more than mangled, mutilated corpses. Women especially."

Behind him, he could hear John's sharp intake of breath as Sherlock's words echoed through him, shaking him to the core.

Molly trembled as anger billowed in her eyes. "You're so cruel. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Many, numerous times." Sherlock cast off her weak insult. She would have to do better if she hoped to make him shake. "In fact, Sally Donovan just recently accused me of being the murderer. I suppose you're of the same thought."

Molly's gaze seemed to waver as she watched him, her eyes softening. "I don't think you're that cruel," she replied, her voice quieter, and lacking the chill of before.

Sherlock too calmed his mind as he watched the young woman with interest. There was some kindness in her still, a fact that made him believe that her earlier attack had only been a front. "You and John should talk later," he commented quickly. "Now, what can you tell me about the two women?"

"They had intercourse within an hour of their murder," she replied, the topic seeming difficult for her as her eyes fell away from the detective. It was a discomforting subject. "With a man. The same man, it would seem. I haven't been able to identify…"

"Moriarty's been having a fun time, hasn't he?" Sherlock cut her off, staring now at John. Here he would find the beginning for his next conversation. "I don't imagine you will be able to identify the man." He looked back to Molly. "Jim's not that careless."

"Jim?" she repeated, her eyes suddenly wide. "I know what you think…"

"You don't think the same?" His curiosity was piqued as he noticed another swift change in Molly's demeanour, one of fear and uncertainty. Did she not know that the man she had dated was in fact a master criminal? "That man you introduced me to, he's the one who tried to kill me. He's the one killing these women now."

Molly's expression sank to despair as she struggled to answer him. "I haven't…"

Her words were cut off suddenly as Lestrade entered, Anderson following close behind, wheeling the body of Delilah Huron before him. He glared at the man, Anderson replying with a look that would never equal his own.

Molly meanwhile was staring at the corpse with teary eyes. "I know her," she whispered. "Delilah. We went to school together." Her voice cracked. "She was a nice woman."

"Of course she was." For some reason, he restrained from telling Molly that the woman had been selling her body for some months now. It was a gesture of kindness he could not quite define.

"The husband should be here soon," Lestrade said, incapable of offering any sympathies. Three women were dead now and pretending to care would take more energy than he had. "We'll wait for him before starting anything."

"Is it necessary for Anderson to be here?" Sherlock demanded roughly as they fell into sudden silence. "He's putting me off."

"You're putting me off. You have no medical advice to offer. You should leave."

Sherlock glared him down.

"Children, easy," Lestrade chided them. "You both stay until I say so. Understood?"

Sherlock doubted he would ever understand how a man like Anderson had ever obtained a job here. He had no intelligence to speak of, no true understanding of the art he pretended to be a master of. Molly was a far better choice than he. These thoughts he kept to himself as a new man suddenly entered the room.

On first glance, three things became evident. One: the man was an alcoholic, two: he was a construction worker, and three: he would be dead within three months.

"Mr Huron?"

The man nodded as Lestrade stepped forward. "I'm sorry to ask you to do this."

He sniffled, his charcoal tinged fingers rubbing at his red eyes. "Is it really her?"

"We need you to tell us that Mr Huron," Lestrade told him, guiding him towards the body lying on the slab. A blanket had been laid across her body, the heart removed from her mouth.

Sherlock watched with curious eyes as the man stepped forward, his eyes falling upon the pale face. As they did, a squeak escaped his mouth, and he collapsed to his knees falling. Make that dead in two.

The man was sobbing hard, without humiliation. He did not care that he was surrounded by people invading on his mourning, did not care that he came out as week and dependent. But Sherlock did, because seeing such a show of emotion gave him ever more insight into the life of the man and by extension, Delilah.

"Mr Huron," Sherlock spoke up then. "Your wife was a teacher at a school. A boarding school too. I imagine she wouldn't often come home."

The man looked up, his face tear-stained. "What?"

Sherlock patience was bound to wear thin. The blubbering of this man would impede him in his research if he did not gain control of his emotions. "Your wife, she was a teacher, yes?"

"Yes," Mr Huron sniffled.

"And you a construction worker, lately unemployed,"

"Yes," he stammered, seemingly shocked by Sherlock's knowledge. "I,,,"

"And your wife was not often home," Sherlock continued, not wishing to give him the chance to falter into some story of why he was unemployed, and that it was in no way related to his alcoholic tendencies."

"No. She came home one weekend a month. This was…"

He did not care to hear about how this was supposed to be the weekend he would see her. "And you've been having an affair."

The man stammered. "No…I…"

"Don't lie. I see it in your eyes. You loved your wife, but your tears are not just that of loss. You regret what you've done, regret that you didn't share her love alone. You were a man who spent months separated from her. Of course you've been having an affair on the side. Did you meet her at a tavern? Did she have a name?"

The man shook his head. "I don't…"

"Oh stop," Sherlock interjected coolly, hating how the man was fighting for his innocence. "What was her name?"

Mr Huron took a deep breath, as if summing up what little courage he possessed. "Mina. Mina Weathers."

C H A P T E R N I N E

John did not know how Sherlock had known that there would be a connection there and he did not have a chance to ask as Sherlock made some rude comment about Delilah and her possible hobby as call girl. Mr Huron brewed with anger as he stood and punched Sherlock in the mouth.

The detective stumbled back, but did not fall, the shock in his face slowly falling to amusement as Lestrade ushered the husband from the room.

"Well, that was interesting."

Molly meanwhile looked extremely riled by the ordeal. "Why did you say that?"

"What?"

"That she…you know," Molly stammered. "It wasn't kind."

John couldn't see Sherlock's expression, but he was certain it was one of reproach. "And you think me kind, do you?"

Molly shook her head. "No, I don't."

Feeling the need to intervene, John cleared his throat. Though Sherlock cast him a quick glance. It did nothing to slow the detective's wrath as he posed a new question to Molly.

"And is Jim kind?"

There was a moment when Molly paused, unable to present any clear response. "I haven't seen Jim…"

"Has he tried to reach you at all? Text? Phone call? Email? Letter?"

Molly shook her head, her eyes wide as she stumbled over Sherlock's rapid-fire questioning. "I went out with him three times before I introduced…I haven't seen him since. He hasn't…I don't…."

"Oh, Molly, Molly. Did you really believe he liked you?"

The poor woman was on the verge of tears. "Sherlock, stop."

Glancing at John, Sherlock looked surprised, as if having forgotten that the doctor was there. "She was dating a murderer. I'm trying to figure out how the deep the relationship was. If you don't like it, leave."

"I don't like it, but I'm not going to let you tear her apart," John said in defence of Molly, throwing her a quick glance.

She smiled gratefully, though it was quick to fade as Sherlock looked back to her. "Do you know where Moriarty is?" he asked now in a slightly softer tone.

Her head shook firmly. "No. I don't."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

There was a pause. "Are you defending him?"

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade had returned, looking rather harried. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I could get some answers to help us find our killer," Sherlock replied. "Why is that so wrong?"

"Timing, Sherlock," John echoed from behind. "He just saw his dead wife. He was emotionally unstable."

"How curious," Sherlock mused. "I always do wonder why people choose to care when it makes them so very vulnerable."

Lestrade's eyes rolled high. "I'm sure you'll keep wondering. Now…"

A sharp ring pervaded the air, cutting Lestrade off. He threw his hand into his coat pocket, and pulled out a mobile. "Give me a sec. Lestrade," he answered the phone.

John watched in fascination as the detective inspector's expression fell to surprise. "Are you sure?" A few more seconds fell. "No, bring it here. Be quick about it. Yeah, he's here. That's the point…Donovan. Yeah, alright. Quick." He hung up and seemed to freeze in the action as an expression of excitement filtered briefly across his face.

As he turned to Sherlock, John was aware of a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "You won't believe this," Lestrade said, his voice caught between surprise and wonder.

"You found another body," Sherlock stated unimpressed.

Lestrade smiled slyly. "Yes. But it's not a woman." He paused. "It's Moriarty."

**A.N. Cliffie! I love my cliffies. I know the feeling's not quite mutual, but the new chapter should be up soon, so bear with me till then. What did you think, then? Any good? Is it getting more exciting? Are you losing interest? Is there anything you're hoping to see? Any questions? Any suggestions? Let me know.**

**Next chapter: Is Moriarty really dead? How will this affect Sherlock? Does Molly know more than what she's saying?**


	11. Chapter Ten

**A.N. Okay, so I don't actually like this chapter. It's shorter than most and I feel like it's a lull, but it's necessary for what's to follow, so bear with.**

**Thanks to Lexicon, Pachax, 104Arianna, and Irene Holmes (multiple chapter review :) ) for their lovely words. They always make me so happy. I'm glad you're still enjoying this story and hope that this lives up to expectations.**

**And to all my readers, read ahead.**

Chapter Ten:

Sherlock stood dumbfounded—a characteristic not normally used in defining the great detective.

He would not speak; he could not bring himself to respond to this latest news.

Lestrade was watching him intently, wanting him to react, but it was John who broke the silence first, unable to withhold.

"Moriarty's dead? Are you sure?"

Sherlock watched Lestrade's expression with keen interest as he stammered a response. "Well, Donovan says…"

"Donovan says?" Sherlock interjected cruelly. "What, are we taking Donovan's word for law now?" It struck him now that he had never believed Lestrade's words, had been stumped rather by the significance of it. As he learned now that Sally Donovan had made the call, his certainty in the matter was set. "She is mistaken, Lestrade. She does not even know the man."

It was only at the sudden sound of shuffling feet that Sherlock recalled Molly's presence. Inclining his head, he saw her face frozen in fear, her lips pursed in uncertainty. So she did still care for the man.

Noticing Sherlock watching, Molly squeaked and turned away. He would pursue her later, for at the moment Lestrade looked on the verge of reprimanding him,

"She says she's pretty sure…"

"And pretty sure now accounts for absolute certainty?" Sherlock countered snidely. He was being colder than he should have been, but his mind was in the process of trying to understand Moriarty's latest move and his temper was short. "This must be part of his ploy, his next move. He's trying to draw my attention elsewhere, trying to play with your mind."

Lestrade's head shook with fierce impatience, his hands rising up in defeat. "You believe what you will. We'll know soon enough." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed angrily from the room.

"Do you really think it's just a…a fake?" Molly stammered as Lestrade disappeared from the room.

Sherlock made no attempt to respond as he turned to John now. "Do you believe him dead?"

John scuffed his foot against the floor, looking slightly discomforted as his eyes passed over Molly. "I think I'll believe it only when I see his body dead before me."

Molly gave another squeak before hurrying from the room.

Sherlock did not even flinch, his gaze resting on the doctor's face. "I do believe Molly has been rather taken in by James Moriarty," he mused.

"Is that what you think?" John returned with a sharp quip of sarcasm. "I'm amazed she feels so strongly about him. I would have thought that a month of no talking would turn a girl off."

The thought provoked a new one in Sherlock's mind, one that grew in aggressive fervour. "Unless he hasn't been gone for a month." These murmurings aloud caused John to cast him a dubious look.

"What? You think he's been keeping up with her, arranging dates. Why would he do that? Because he loves her?" John's voice reeked of even more doubt, saying it as though it was a most ridiculous suggestion, too preposterous.

Sherlock was in accordance with John's latter comment, though the rest of it did not seem so foreign of an idea in his buzzing brain. Why would Jim Moriarty attempt to keep a relationship going with a woman like Molly? There was obviously no real attraction, no real connection between the two. Molly might be deluded into believing otherwise, but Moriarty…? He could not begin to imagine why, and so wracked his brain for possibilities as the minutes dragged on.

C H A P T E R T E N

Close to an hour passed before the body arrived.

John was downstairs getting a coffee, hopeful that the caffeine would help him stay awake, when the ambulance arrived. Seeing the body atop the gurney, his stomach churned in disgust. It was amazing how death still had an impact on him, though in all fairness these latest murders had been rather gruesome in nature, so much so that most people would have turned at the sight—Sherlock not included. But this body now being wheeled away before him was grisly in a way far different than the others.

For one, the flesh had been nearly completely burned off, leaving patches of charred skin. Black and red, the body was destroyed to the point that John was doubtful that anyone would be able to identify it with any certainty, which made him question Sally's insistence on the fact that it was Moriarty. It did not help that what little had been left of the body showed clear signs of having been gnawed by various forms of life as well as the clear indication that the decomposition process had already begun. Whoever it was, they had been dead for a long time.

Cringing, he set aside his cup, unable to drink it now. He could only imagine the look that would cross Sherlock's face when he saw this body presented to him. In fact, he would very much like to hold witness to the detective's reaction.

Rushing to the stairs, he made it to the mortuary just as the lift doors opened. He went in first to find Sherlock bent over the teacher's body, an expression of intrigue on his face.

He began to call for the detective's attention, but was briskly cut off by the sound of doors being flung open. Lestrade's voice came through now.

"…over there. Anderson, I'll leave you in charge of this."

Sherlock's gaze snapped up in attention, his eyes falling first on Lestrade and then to the body. His orbs seemed to darken as he did. "This is the body?" he enquired slowly, as he swept forward in two long gaits. His expression was one of disdain. "This is what you believe to have once been Moriarty?" He sneered. "I would love to hear your reasoning, Sally."

Donovan flinched ever so slightly as Sherlock's sharp gaze fell on her. She crossed her arms as if to defend herself. "Why don't you tell me," she snapped crossly.

John's stare fell onto the body too as Sally pointed. He had not seen it before, but as he stared now at the full body, he could not mistake the giant _M _carved into the man's torso.

"Of course! He must be Moriarty!" Sherlock exclaimed, his sarcasm overabundant.

Sally scowled. "Anderson's certain he's been dead about a month, and we did always think that the explosion could have killed him. My reasoning is sound."

"Oh, yes, most definitely."

John took a deep breath as the anger in Sally's eyes raged with a burning ferocity. Sherlock was not doing himself any favours by picking an argument with this woman. "It could be him, Sherlock."

As the detective's gaze fell on him, John realized he'd said the wrong thing. There was something akin to hurt in his eyes, as if this was some betrayal. "This cannot be Moriarty. He's been leaving us bodies these past days. How could he do that if he was dead?"

"Because it's not him," Lestrade said now. "Sherlock, we have to cater to the possibility that it might be someone else."

But Sherlock would not hear a word. "You're all so blind. This is not Moriarty and I know how to prove it."

John stared again at the disfigured face. There was no way to tell. He seemed the right height, the right build. In truth, he did not believe it to be Moriarty either but, unlike Sherlock, he was willing to hope that perhaps the man was gone.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

Sherlock offered no reply as he hurried then from the room, leaving a dismal pall to fall over the room.

Anderson broke the silence first. "Well I would like to get started if you think it won't upset his highness."

"Do it," Lestrade ordered, looking then to John. "Where's he gone off to, then?"

John shrugged. "I have no idea." He did not know if he should leave as Anderson prepared to cut into the form. It was late and his mind was begging for rest. Perhaps he should leave.

"Probably gone to murder some poor woman," Donovan mumbled from the corner.

John turned to her with hard eyes. "He's not a murderer," he said curtly. "He's doing his best to help you lot."

Sally made no attempt to respond and silence fell again, broken only by the sound of Anderson rummaging through his tools. He definitely should leave.

But he was stopped before he could even try as Sherlock re-entered the room then, dragging a frightened Molly behind him.

"Oh Sherlock, don't," John protested, stepping forward. He could not do this to the girl.

Sherlock did not hesitate, though, as he pushed Molly forward, prompting her to glance at the corpse. "Is this Jim Moriarty?" he hissed.

The girl stood frozen as her eyes fell upon the burnt body. For a second John though she would retch, but she did not. She just stood there, staring.

All eyes were on her, but Molly said nothing for a few minutes. A single tear dripped down her cheek. John was the only to see.

"I-I d-don't know," she stammered. "I c-can't tell."

Sherlock frowned impatiently. "Do you think it's him?"

Molly stared at him defiantly then, her eyes shining. "I don't know. I haven't seen him in a month. How should I know?"

"Maybe this will help," Sally spoke up suddenly. In her hand she held a bag of possessions, a bag she had not told them of.

Sherlock seemed to bristle with anger. "What is that?"

"They were found on his person. Didn't I say?" Sally acted the innocent as she moved forward, laying the items on a tray before them. "Take your time Molly."

John stepped closer to discern them for himself.

There were four different items. A watch (gold with a crack running through the middle of the face), a wallet (black leather, ripped and empty), a lighter (silver with a black emblem on one side, a symbol John could not decipher), and a ring (a plain, gold band).

He could not see Molly's face as she perused the items but he could sense that something was amiss as her hand reached out for the ring. Sally passed her a glove prompting Sherlock to mutter something about there being nothing to contaminate. No one paid him heed as Molly lifted the ring, her gaze fixed on the inside.

The ring fell from her hand, clattering against the tray as she retreated a few steps in shock. "I…that…" She said no more as her tears came in a rush.

Glancing at the others, John rushed forward to comfort the girl, leading her from the room, vaguely aware of the triumphant grin on Sally's face and the rather vacant expression on Sherlock's.

C H A P T E R T E N

Three days passed and nothing.

They were all convinced that Moriarty was dead: Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Molly, even John. They had all been taken in, but he knew better. They could not convince him, try as they might, to believe that the man was dead. What did it matter that they were possessions? What did it matter that they'd been able to confirm that the body was Moriarty's, or that the DNA matched? It was all part of the grand scheme that they were all too stupid to see. He was not ignorant.

The case had taken a turn for the worse too. Lestrade had tried to retrieve phone calls and emails, but the records of all three women had been wiped clean. No one knew anything, ask as he might. He'd tried everything to get someone to admit it, but the trail had been wiped clean and he was at a wall again.

John was gone, working at the hospital with Sarah. He did not expect him back before morning, but he talked nonetheless as if he were there, just musing aloud. It helped sometimes to voice his opinions regardless if someone was there to listen or not. The silence threatened to drive him insane.

"Are you talking to yourself again?"

Mrs Hudson entered the room so quietly that Sherlock flinched slightly upon the sound of her voice. He was at the end of his nerves, his mind reacting badly to this business of 'Moriarty's death.

"If it bothers you, leave," he told her sharply as he settled back into his couch.

"Now really, Sherlock," she chided. "What's gotten into you?"

_Moriarty. _He did not respond to her question, closing his eyes in hopes that she would leave.

She did, clicking her tongue as she went.

He laid there as time passed him without meaning. Moriarty was not dead, but he wanted the world to think he was. But why? And how on earth did Molly fit into all this? He could not find an answer, but he should have by now.

What was wrong with him? Why was this case proving so difficult to find a resolution for? He had tried everything now, everything he could think of to find the linking factor, and yet it still evaded him like the wind evades the hand of a grasping child. But he was no child, and he was not chasing the wind.

Hours passed as Sherlock lay still, letting his mind carry him. He had used John's laptop to peruse a variety of call girl sites, but none had shown any evidence of having lost any women recently. But he was certain that he should have. It made him believe that this was all part of some bigger plan, much bigger than just a simple attempt to recreate a string of unsolvable murders from the past. But what?

He had ideas, but no proof, and no solid reasoning and it was frustrating. There was something he was missing, something he should not have missed. He had already retraced his steps almost a dozen times, taking into account everything. But there was nothing to be found, not even the smallest smudge. The cleanliness of it all made him extremely suspicious. It was all too perfect.

The door below opened but he did not move, even as footsteps echoed up the steps.

"Have you moved at all since I left?"

John was standing before him, looking rather frazzled.

"Bad day at work?" Sherlock enquired instead of giving a response. He let his eyes fall over John's being, able to discern in only a few seconds that he'd had a row with Sarah and diagnosed a patient with some possibly incurable ailment. He also knew that he'd walked some of the way home. He voices these to John who stared at him with wide eyes.

"Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock did not grin as he normally would. His mind was still working, this was a clear sign of that. "Ink splatter; right wrist. You pressed too hard when writing a prescription. Your hair is all ruffled, clearly from the wind and clearly not from just waiting for a cab or crossing a sidewalk. You also have a splatter of water on your pant. Car drove through a puddle nearby. And as for Sarah, well, it was quite obvious that you intended to go out with her. Why would you be here then unless you'd gotten into an argument?"

"Shove off," John said angrily, storming into the kitchen.

Sherlock watched him grow, his frown deepening. It was rare for John to react with such vehemence. He sat up then as John came back into the room. "Do you want to talk about it?"

John came to a sudden halt, regarding Sherlock with curious eyes. "Are you really trying to be compassionate?"

He hesitated. "Perhaps," he said finally. "Do you want me to try to be compassionate?"

"I don't know." John took his usual seat. "Can you pull off compassion?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why don't you talk, and I'll pretend to listen?"

John scoffed. "We fought over you."

This did not come entirely as a surprise to Sherlock. In the past month, many of the couple's arguments had stemmed from debates over the detective's methods. "What about this time?"

"About whether I should keep living with you or not," John answered after a brief pause, eyeing the detective with wary eyes.

Sherlock said nothing for a while. "She was trying to convince you to leave?"

"Yes."

"And do you want to?"

There was no hesitation. "No, I don't."

It lacked sincerity though, and Sherlock's eyebrows rose suspiciously. "I don't mind…"

"Sherlock, it's fine," John interrupted. "Look, I feel as though we're constantly having this discussion and it needs to stop. I'm not going to move out, yet. Sarah and I aren't that serious yet, and you still need my help. I'll think about it once this whole thing is solved. So, let's drop it."

"It's dropped," Sherlock said.

"Thank you."

They fell into silence now as John opened his laptop and Sherlock reached for his mobile phone.

There were ten missed messages. Eight from Mycroft, two from unknown. Curious, he opened the first.

_Come and find me if you can – JR._

He stared at it wonderingly before opening the second.

_Dusk has fallen on this place_

_The rising moon incites the chase_

_The streets are mine to stalk at will_

_As a predator pursues its prey to kill_

_A woman tonight will suffer my wrath_

_As she stumbles unknowingly into my path_

_Her body will be yours to find_

_This game will test your body and mind_

_The question is can you succeed?_

_You poor foolish man without a lead_

_Can you play the game and come out alive?_

_The chances are slim that you will survive._

_You're already beginning to rip at the seams_

_This case doth haunt your waking dreams_

_The harder you try, the more you will learn_

_But beware those that you leave to burn_

_At the end of this game, a price must be paid_

_You cannot escape without loss in this trade _

_The line between good and evil is thin_

_You must sacrifice your heart if you want to win_

_-JR_

It was poorly written. Such was Sherlock's first thought. His second was one of infuriation. He did not like riddles and this one was proving to be quite an aggravating one. He glanced over it a few times, trying to decipher the clues he believed to be there.

Moments of searching proved futile as he could not pull from this garble of words any true message.

Placing aside his mobile, Sherlock glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain again, the downpour falling upon the window panes with some great force. He should be trying to stop it but where was he supposed to start? The man was toying with his dead.

And then the call came. So it had already happened.

He reached for the mobile. "Yes, Lestrade?"

"We found another one."

There was something different about Lestrade's voice. It sounded almost…excited. It was quite unlike the detective inspector.

"What's different about this one?" he questioned, his own heart beginning to race in anticipation.

"She's still alive."

**A.N. Yes, I know, another cliffhanger. And that poem? I still cringe when I read it, but I don't know, I kind of like it. it seems like something this JR person would do. The question is: is he Moriarty or not? It doesn't seem like he is, and yet Sherlock is so sure. All will be resolved soon, I think…**

**Please leave me a comment to let me know what you think. This marks a thrilling change in our story as we're thrown into what I like to consider ACT TWO! So prepare for new twists, new characters and more murderous.**

**Next chapter: Can this woman provide answers for Sherlock? Is the body they found really Moriarty's? And what does Mycroft want? Stayed tuned to find out.**

**Reviews are always lovely.**

**Love, **

**Faith**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A.N. New chapter and one of the longest yet! I hope that's okay. I particularly enjoyed writing this one especially because of a certain someone's POV which you will discover soon enough. As always, thanks for the reviews and support. **

**A huge thanks to Irene Holmes, Lexicon (I'd loved writing those lines), Ellie, and Victoria of Memphis. 31 reviews at the moment. Let's see if we can get it to an even 40 :)**

**Also, warning for some PG-13 rated conversation. Nothing too graphic, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.**

**Read ahead my lovelies!**

Chapter Eleven:

Sherlock was burning with excitement. John could sense it like a blast of cool air as they sat in the cab, their destination set for St. Bart's. He could understand perfectly well the reasons behind the detective's sudden wonder, but there was something else that seemed to be breaking through Sherlock's aura of thrill, some deeper annoyance, some darker knowledge. He could not bring himself to guess as to what that could be, and bringing it up to the detective gained him nothing but a sharp reprimand.

"Did Lestrade say anything else?"

"Something other than the fact that the latest victim is in fact alive? Sherlock scoffed. "What other news could their possibly be?"

"Sorry," John muttered. "You just seem a little…on edge."

Sherlock was slow to respond. "It's just possible that Moriarty has stumbled in his path, that he has made some grave error. This might be an opportunity."

John said nothing on the mention of Moriarty's name. He was still doubtful as to whether or not the man was still alive. It seemed as if he was truly dead. The evidence stating thus seemed entirely too strong to argue. Yet he could see the certainty in Sherlock's eyes that it was nothing more than a ploy and that the man was indeed still at large, still wreaking havoc.

The rain outside was drumming against the roof of the cab with some fierce intent. The weather was horrendous, and it gave the night a far more eerie sense than it would have held normally. There was something dark brooding in the shadows of the eve, a lingering evil that seemed to hang in the air, entrapping the cab. John could not quite comprehend this sensation, nor did he believe did he want to. He would leave Sherlock to his secrets for now. The detective would open up to him sooner or later. Of that, he had no doubt.

"Terrible night, eh gents?" The cabbie, a rather youthful lad, spoke up suddenly as if disliking the fallen silence. "I hope your business ain't quite so dreary."

"You already know otherwise. Why make point in mentioning it?" Sherlock spoke curtly, turning cold eyes forward. "Don't bother making conversation. Speaking will lower the intelligence of this car. Do what you were born to and drive."

The cabbie was slow to reply, but when he did, it was to take part in an action John had not yet seen done by any before.

Screeching to a halt, the cabbie turned around in his seat, his greyish green eyes flaring with anger. "Then you'd best be leaving gents. I don't take kindly to dishonourments of such. Out with ya." He waved a finger towards the door.

"He didn't mean to…" John's attempt to formulate an apology was swiftly cut off as Sherlock swept from the car. _Stubborn man._ Sighing heavily, he stepped out of the cab too and into the downpour. He was soaked within seconds as he fumbled to open his umbrella.

As the shelter rose above his head, it seemed a most futile thing. It would do him no good now.

Sherlock stood beside him, his hand raised as he tried to usher down another cab. His hair was plastered to his head, the curliness of it lost as the rain pulled at the strands. He did not seem bothered by it, though his frustration did grow as cabs sailed by without halt.

"I think we'd be best to just walk it. We're not far now," John said in a defeatist tone. When Sherlock failed to respond he repeated himself.

"I heard you," the detective grumbled as he finally too relented. "Shall we?" Striding forward, John hurried along beside him, trying to raise the umbrella to cover the both of them.

Sherlock stared at him peculiarly. "What are you doing?"

"You were too stubborn to bring one remember? I'm trying to be kind," John explained, as always held in wonder by the lack of Sherlock's knowledge of such gestures.

Sherlock waved him off. "It hardly matters now."

"But that's not…okay, never mind. Do whatever you want…catch a cold. I shouldn't even…never mind." John mumbled, his words incomprehensible over the sound of the falling rain.

His eyes fixed forward, he could not see Sherlock scrutinizing him through his peripherals. He only knew that, seconds after his rambling rant, the detective plucked the umbrella from his hand, holding it over the two of them.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured. "Now keep pace."

John did not falter in his step as he walked alongside his friend, gladdened by this small victory. Here was progress being made.

Together they sloshed through the water drowned streets of London, drawing the attention of some as they went. It had not occurred to John before, but seeing the stolen glances he groaned internally. _Not. Gay. _

Sherlock seemed impervious to it all as he continued at his quick pace. They had whiles to go and the umbrella in truth did hardly any good in keeping them safe from the violent downpour. Still Sherlock held it aloft, and John did not dispute him. Both could feel the rain lashing at them, but neither wished to complain, believing the other to be in a better position than themselves.

In less than half an hour they found themselves standing outside the doors of St. Bart's.

John sighed deeply in relief at the sight of its familiar form, glad that they could escape the constant downpour.

Coming out of the dreadful weather, they were met by a breath of warm air. John had not realized how cold he was until that moment. His hands looked blue to his eye in the light and he rubbed them furiously, trying to work the circulation back into them.

Sherlock did not seem as moved by this sudden shift in temperature. He simply shook out the umbrella before passing it to John and stepping forward into the main lobby. As he went, he left a trail of wet footprints. John watched for a moment in amusement. He was not, apparently, perturbed by the drenched sight he appeared to to others.

Doing his best to shake out some of the water, John quickly followed after the detective. The stares they attracted now were not as secretive as before. John could feel the eyes boring into them. And what a sight they must look. Two grown men, drenched to the skin, trudging along through the hall, leaving a muddied mess in their wake.

"What a state the two of you are in!"

The voice that called to them was vaguely familiar. Turning he saw a woman, a nurse. He had seen her before, but could not quite remember her name.

"Joanna. How's the baby?"

John gazed in surprise at Sherlock. Not only had the detective taken the time to slow down, but he had remembered her name and had made an attempt at a pleasant greeting.

"Very well, thank you Mr Holmes," the woman replied cheerfully. "Going to be a boy."

"I could have told you that," Sherlock said. "Good night to you."

He was done with his little pleasantries, and made to set on his course again, but Joanna hurried to his side, breezing past John in the process without paying him any heed. "You two here about the girl they just brought in?"

Sherlock stopped again, his eyes now perceiving the woman in a different light, as if trying to assess her usefulness. "What do you know of her?"

"Only what the poor bloke who found her has been saying. That she was supposed to be another victim to that serial killer. Jack the Ripper the 2nd the news is calling him. I don't know much else. She's not my patient. But I figured I'd be seeing you."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes glazed slightly as she drifted from topic. "Is he still here?"

"With the police. Upstairs. They were interviewing him last I saw." Her beeper began to buzz then and she cursed under her breath. "Gotta run. Good luck boys." As she went, she finally turned to John. "You look well Dr Watson. Healing nicely?"

"Yes, thanks," he responded quickly as she gave him a quick nod and then went on her way.

Looking back to Sherlock he found the detective already gone. Shaking his head, an act that led to water droplets flinging off his dripping hair and landing upon people passing, he uttered quick apologies before hurrying after Sherlock's retreating form.

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

The man who had stumbled upon the murder was not quite the person Sherlock had wanted to see. At first glance, Warren Drover appeared to be worthless as a person, a waste of space. Only looking about eighteen, perusing his features, Sherlock began to glean information about the boy, information that made him cringe with dislike. He would not make for a good witness.

Speaking to Lestrade, the boy remained impervious to Sherlock's observations, allowing the detective an opportunity to properly perceive his character. This is what he saw.

There was a fading yellowish tinge around his right eye. _Got into a fight, maybe one week ago. _His eyes seemed slightly bleary, a little red. _Already drunk, and it's not even past the witching hour. Most definitely a bar fight then_.

Down his eyes went, taking in the tooth earring on the left one and the tell-tale hole in his lip. A line of ink coursed up the nape of his neck, just barely visible above his raised collar. _Trying to be intimidating when it's fairly certain by the puppy dog look in his eyes that he probably could never hurt a fly. _

His hands were shaking, and his fingernails held some powder residue. A smile grew on Sherlock's face. _Into drugs. Perhaps not a bar fight then? But a dispute over drug money. But then he would be dead. So no, bar fight it is._

And what was that sticking out of the pocket of his coat. _A bill? _Sherlock tilted his head, squinting slightly. A bar tab. And the price…_over a hundred quid! _He scrutinized the man's face again. He wasn't that drunk, so he hadn't been drinking alone. But with who.

His eyes ran over the man's hand. No rings. _Not married. Not a surprise._ There was nothing on his person that could account for personal relationship. But then his fingers were particularly trimmed, and his hair was full of gel. He was a drunk but he was well-coiffed and had put enough attention into his physical appearance…

The rest fell into place, a perfect description of the man passing through his mind. _Gay, gotten into a recent fight with a boyfriend. Falling to drugs and alcohol for comfort and trying to pick up someone in the meanwhile. Many someones…_

"It seems you lucked out," Sherlock said then, breaking through the conversation taking place before him. "No one interested in taking you on. Is that why you left the bar early? No men left to engage with? Trying to hit a different pub?"

The man—Warren Drover—shook his head disbelievingly, his glazed eyes staring intently at Sherlock now. "How did you…"

Behind him, Sherlock grinned to see Lestrade shaking his head. How long had he been talking to the man, trying to get a decent word from him? What five minutes took to perceive a man, he could do in less than a minute on the best of days.

"No matter," Sherlock cut in, careful to forego the smug expression. He was vaguely aware of the way Warren's eyes were observing his own features. _Oh please. _"Broke up a week ago, right? You've been patrolling the spots, hoping for a new Mr Right. So you left one spot, and you stopped in an alley to smoke a bit maybe, to compose yourself. Anyway, you stopped. And then what did you hear?"

"Noises."

Sherlock's eyes rolled when Warren failed to say anything else, looking on with shocked admiration. "What type of noises?" he pressed.

Warren stumbled over his next response. "Like...love sounds."

"Love sounds?" Sherlock demanded, one eyebrow raised in a questioning gesture.

The man looked thoroughly discomforted as he launched into a faltering description of the noises he called 'love sounds'. "I don't…k-know. Like heavy breathing and moaning…" his speech dragged off, his hands wringing together.

"It's fine," a voice said from behind Sherlock then. "He knows what you mean."

Sherlock glanced quickly back at John. "Do I?"

John's eyes were opened wide, and he now struggled to find a response. Sherlock watched him squirm uncomfortably for a few seconds before returning to his prime witness.

"So you heard noises, figured they were doing it, and then what did you hear?"

Warren swallowed hard. "A scream. The woman. She screamed out, but not like you'd expect…" He coughed, shifting from side to side. "It was like she was scared, or hurt." He took a deep breath. "I ran forward, cause I could hear him hitting her, and she was crying for help and I couldn't just stand there."

"How noble of you," Sherlock remarked sarcastically, as Warren paused as if to allow the weight of his actions to fall upon them. "You were so brave."

Warren grinned broadly, unable to detect the sarcasm in the detective's voice. "Well, it's my duty y'know…"

"Yes, now continue. What did you see?" Sherlock interjected impatiently.

"So I came around the corner fast, and I saw the woman lying on the floor. She was unconscious and bleeding and the man was kneeling over her, a blade in his hand. He had already cut along her collarbone and it looked like he was going to stab her in the heart. His face was to me, but I couldn't see it. He was wearing a fedora or something and it was too dark. Anyway, he saw me and ran. I would chased him, but I was more worried about the woman and he had the knife and I just did what I thought best…"

"And you didn't see him at all?" Sherlock asked again angrily. "Nothing at all?"

Warren shook his head, looking suddenly distraught. "I'm so sorry. I did what I could…"

"And that was nothing at all."

Sherlock turned on his heel angrily. Of course he would not have gotten a good look at Moriarty. Of course he would have been well-hidden in case. And yet, he had been stopped. His act had been halted, his attempt to destroy attempted. And he had fled.

But why would Moriarty flee? He could have easily killed the man. So why not?

"What do you think?" John had taken pursuit after him, following him through the hallways. "And where are we going?"

"_I_," Sherlock corrected him, "am going to the morgue. I have someone important to visit."

"Molly won't want to see you," John told him, coming to a sudden halt. It was obvious he would not follow the detective back to that place.

Sherlock glanced at him, grim-faced. "I was not referring to her."

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

Molly had not banked on coming in today. She had promised herself that she would take the day off—a reprieve she greatly needed. And yet, as evening had come to fall on London, bringing with it a storm of grave proportions, she had found herself walking through the pristine doors, into the place she could only call her second home.

Graham Archer was sitting in the break room as she came. A coroner much like herself and ten years her senior, he had taught her much about the inner workings of St Bart's and had also been the one to introduce her to the one and only: Mr Sherlock Holmes.

She did not want to think of him, and suppressed such a thought as Graham waved her over. "You shouldn't be her Mol," he chided her in his thick Irish brogue. A handsome sort with locks of ebony and a fuzzy beard, his eyes, a mocha colour, shone with gentle grace. "You've been working too much. You look ready to collapse."

"My flat's too quiet," she explained as she took a seat beside him, nabbing at one of the cookies laid across the coffee table. One of their peers—Marcie Hidler—was always trying out cookies, experimenting with a variety of recipes. Today it seemed she was testing her collection of dates and cherries. It was not such a great combination. She placed it aside with a wrinkled expression.

"Not so tasty, eh?"

She shook her head. "Definitely not." Sighing, she sat back in her seat. "So, why are you still here?"

"A woman was brought in just as my shift was ending. They think she was supposed to be one of those Modern Ripper victims."

"Supposed to be?" Molly prodded, intrigued. "She's not dead?"

Graham shook his head. "Not yet, at least," he explained. "She's in ICU with a concussion and a few broken ribs. They also think a few arteries might have been hit last I heard."

"And they're sure she's part of the case?"

Graham could provide no clear answer here either. "There are some similarities. He was raping her before he tried to kill her. A man heard her scream and managed to stop it. The police are upstairs talking to him now. I saw Lestrade…"

"Was Sherlock there?"

"I didn't see him…"

Molly cursed her bad fortune. Why ask; of course he was there. Well she would do everything in her power to make sure they did not cross paths. Perhaps she should just leave. The silence couldn't be worse than having to deal with that man.

She closed her eyes, feeling a headache building. Did she have aspirin in her bag? No, she had meant to pick some up this morning, but had chosen to stay in instead, wishing that he would just call.

"Mol, what's wrong?"

Her eyes flew open, and she forced a smile to her face. "Nothing; I'm just a little tired I guess."

"Well, you should go home now. You're not needed. If anything happens, I'll take care of it. Melissa and Christie are with her grandparents now," he told her, referring in that instant to his wife and three-year old daughter. "I can handle the grand detective."

"I can handle him too," Molly argued, though she doubted herself as she said it. "He's just…this case he's working on is…" she could not conceive of a lie. "I think I observe him with these rose-coloured glasses, but lately I've gotten the chance to see his true self and it's not quite so lustrous."

Graham nodded, comprehending her issue. "An intellect, Sherlock lacks proper refinement. I always say he'll one day regret the attitude he comports himself with. He isolates people, and one day when he really needs someone by his side, he won't be able to find a single soul."

Molly was prepared to argue the point, but withheld. There was one person who stood by his side—John Watson. But she could see the way Sherlock treated him, and if he wasn't careful, he would lose him too. And perhaps it would be better. Sherlock was a smart man, but he was not a good one.

Bidding Graham a goodnight, she strode from the room. She would not go home, but there was another place she could go, one where she could be safe from Sherlock, and away from the loneliness of her heart.

Taking her mobile, she began to dial in a number when a voice called to her, a voice she shivered to hear.

"I was hoping to find you."

Molly glanced back to see Sherlock's tall form hurrying down the hall towards her. He wore an excited grin.

"I can't say the same," she responded coolly, slipping her phone away again. "I'm late for something, Sherlock."

The lie was not believed by the detective. "You've only just arrived. Given a day off and yet you still chose to came in. You must be bored out of your mind. I can change that."

She did not bother to ask him how he had known. "I'm certain you could. But, unfortunately, I'm not looking for someone to belittle and abuse me. Goodbye."

This newfound strength and resistance shocked even Molly as she hurried away from the detective. _Take that Sherlock Holmes_. _I'm not just some doting admirer anymore. You do not own me._

But Sherlock was not so easily defeated. With a few long strides he crossed the distance between them and cut her off, coming to stand in her way. "I get the sense that you have some resentment towards me."

"What a brilliant deduction," Molly agreed, skirting around him.

He reached out with a hand and clasped her arm, pulling her back. "I need to see the body again, Molly."

She stared at him defiantly, a cold anger raging through her. How dare he. "You have no right," she replied stonily. "The case is closed. The police have identified him. Why do you need to push the matter?"

Sherlock pulled her in closer then, their faces inches apart, as his eyes bore into hers. She could feel the heat building through her body, rising to her face. Flushed, she found herself unable to pull away from his penetrating gaze. "But we both know that isn't the truth, don't we Molly?" His voice was a bare whisper, so assured, his breath falling upon her face. It smelled of coffee.

She found herself unable to move as his eyes held her in place, his hand gripping ever tighter to his arm. The pain of his nails digging into her skin broke their connection.

"Let me go," she hissed, wrenching herself free. "You know nothing, Sherlock Holmes," she told him.

She could tell from his expression that he would not try to hold her back now. Free from him, she dashed away down the corridor, her heart drumming loudly within her chest, his eyes ingrained in her mind. He had nearly had her. She would have to be more careful in the future.

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

John was sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room when Sherlock reappeared. He'd been gone for nearly two hours, though John had never once thought to worry about him. It was hardly unusual for the detective to take long sojourns without a word. But there was something unsettling about the look on Sherlock's face as he came to settle into the seat beside him.

"Where's Lestrade?" he aked.

"Getting coffee," John replied. "He finished up with Warren right after you left, He didn't add anything new to what he'd told you, though he was anxious to leave his number and to make sure you got it." He could not help the grin that crossed his lips as Sherlock's frown deepened.

"She wasn't raped."

"What?"

Sherlock looked at him with impatient eyes. "The woman. He didn't rape her."

"How do you know he didn't rape her?" John questioned uncertainly. "He didn't see them before the scream."

"No, but he heard them. Love sounds, remember?" Sherlock explained. "She wasn't raped. It was consensual."

John nodded, seeing the logic of it. "But what does it mean, then? That she knew him? That he was a client?"

"Could be either," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "But what works for one, most definitely works for the others. So the question is, as you say: was it that they all knew him, or that he had hired them?"

"Paid for them, and then killed them," John ruminated in disgust. "What sort of man…"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied before the question could be finished. "I'm certain it's him." He did not wait for John to argue. "I know what you think, what Lestrade thinks, but your minds are clouded by what you want to see. He's still alive, still playing us. And I know how to get to him."

John did not contend. "How?"

Sherlock was prevented from replying as Lestrade appeared then, a cup of coffee in hand. "I still don't get the appeal, but this is for you."

A giant grin played on the detective inspector's face as he passed Sherlock a piece of paper with digits scribbled across in drunken slant.

Sherlock grumbled incomprehensibly as he crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into the trash.

"Ah, and I thought there was such potential," Lestrade joked as he took the seat opposite the two. "Any news yet?"

John shook his head. "Are we just going to wait for her to wake?"

"I have guards standing post. Chances are whoever tried to kill might try to finish the job before we have a chance to question her. You don't have to stay, of course." Lestrade replied, placing his gaze on Sherlock. "Where were you off to?"

"Nowhere," Sherlock answered curtly. "And I'm not going anywhere. John, feel free to leave if you wish."

John shook his head. He did not have work the next day. He could stay a while, and he would. There was something unsettling in Sherlock's gaze, some dark though that seemed to be running through his mind. He had mentioned a way of getting to Moriarty—if the man was indeed alive. There was no hope that this would be some kosher adventure. No, it would be better for him to stay.

The hours went by in slow succession. One—two—three—four. They waited together, sometimes in discussion, sometimes in silence. Lestrade dozed off at one point, and even John had taken a half an hour to gain some much needed rest. Sherlock, alone, remained alert the entire time, his mind raging with thoughts John could only being to guess.

Halfway through their waiting, Lestrade received a call, one he had claimed in private. With the detective inspector's sudden absence, John had tried to prompt Sherlock into divulging the source that could lead them to Moriarty. He had remained vague in his reply.

"You know them well enough."

"Who?" John pressed again.

"You do not need me to tell you."

And perhaps he didn't, but as his mind suffered under the deprivation of sleep, John could not come to any coherent conclusion. He had dropped it when Lestrade had returned and to silence again at fallen.

Sometime past two in the morning, they were met by a doctor who had taken charge of the woman's care. "She's sleeping at the moment. But she'll recover," he had told the unlikely trio, seemingly disconcerted by the group before him. "I know you'll be wanting to speak to her, detective inspector," he said to Lestrade. "But it can only be you."

"We'll argue about it later," Lestrade directed this towards Sherlock as he sensed the detective readying to argue the point. "Thank you Doctor."

Another hour they waited then, Sherlock seeming to glow with anxious excitement as they anticipated her waking.

"She'll be exhausted," Lestrade mused as time continued to pass. "So we have to be gentle."

"There's no time to be patient. Her response might dictate the rest of this case," Sherlock argued firmly. "Which is why I shall conduct the interrogation?"

Lestrade shook his head. "You'll scare her to silence. Sherlock, this is not quite like the others, you do realize that. She's a rape victim, and just escaped death. You can't treat her like a puppet on a string."

"She was not a rape victim," Sherlock corrected him. "And I do not treat people like puppets."

John cleared his throat suggestively and Sherlock's gaze fell to him. "I do not."

Was the detective really that blind to his methods? "You use people all the time, Sherlock. It's like human nature for you."

Sherlock said nothing to that. "I manipulate scenarios so that I can catch killers and other such criminals. Is that a crime?"

"It should be," Lestrade replied, sighing heavily. "But if it gets the job done…"

John was not so easily persuaded on the matter. Certainly it did produce its results, but that did not mean that it worked better than the opposite. If only Sherlock would try. But asking Sherlock to change who he was seemed as impossible a task as asking an elephant to fly.

Their conversation lapsed then, not because of any present animosity, but because the doctor from before appeared in their line of vision, a grim expression on his face.

At first thought, John was certain that something had gone awry, but as the doctor stopped before them, just the opposite proved to be true.

"She's awake."

**A.N. Perhaps lacking a bit in excitement, but I like this calm before the storm. It allows for reflection and pause to let these characters grow to their full potential. Originally, I had intended on writing Molly's POV, though I quite enjoyed it. What do you think? Leave a review to let me know your thoughts—good or bad, though please be democratic in your criticisms :)**

**Next chapter: Who is this woman who escaped Moriarty's clutches? And what does Molly know that she doesn't want Sherlock finding out? And how does Sherlock intend to learn it? The next chapter promises some answers, but with some answers come more questions.**

**Review!**

**Love you all, **

**Faith**


	13. Chapter Twelve

**A.N. Back with another chapter for my lovelies. Sorry if the update did not come quite so rapidly. I fear I might not upload another chapter until next Friday because I have two papers due this week and I need to focus on them intently. But only time will tell.**

**Thanks for all the support I've received. I feel that I have more readers than before and I'm glad to think I'm doing something right.**

**Lots of gratitude to HowlynMad, Ellie and elusivek. Appreciate the support always. This chapter's for you.**

Chapter Twelve:

"I promise to be good."

Lestrade looked particularly harried as he scrutinized Sherlock. "I don't think it's a good idea. The doctor did say she's groggy and she's our only witness. We don't need you traumatizing her into silence. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. But you also have to understand that I can't run the risk of you treating her as if she's some dainty flower. She has information we need. Her mind will never be clearer than it is now. In a few hours she'll be doped on morphine, and the human memory is quick to fade. I need her to describe him. She is my proof."

"Your proof of what?"

"Moriarty's existence," John replied before Sherlock could. "She might be able to settle the matter."

"She will be able to," Sherlock corrected him, noting Lestrade's growing disdain. "She is my first real chance. Don't screw it up."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. "Me screw it up? Really? Is that what you think of me?"

"You're a good detective, Lestrade, "Sherlock reworded his comment. "But you have too much heart. I am not made weak by emotions. That makes me better."

"And that's why I don't want to send you in first," Lestrade reiterated in frustration. "Unless you can act with a gentile character and be other than you are."

"I can. Let me show you."

Lestrade threw his hands up in defeat. "God help me! Fine. Go on then. John, go with him."

But the doctor would only let one in, stating firmly that she was far too weak and far too distressed to be faced by more than one man at a time. Looking extremely worried by this, Lestrade was rather reluctant to simply let Sherlock walk in. But in the end, he did, and in a triumphant air, Sherlock marched into the room, followed by one last warning.

"Only five minutes, Sherlock. And don't you dare do anything to upset her!"

The door shut gently behind him. The lighting in the room was dim and obscured his vision of the girl lying prone on the bed. Moving closer to her bed, he heard her stir. She had drifted off, but as his footsteps echoed around her, she came to her senses, her head shooting up in alert.

"Who's there?" she questioned, her voice cracked and rough.

Coming even closer, Sherlock began to perceive more of her appearance, and what he saw was straggling.

She looked tired, her face a pale, waxen complexion in the unflattering light of the room. Her hair, stringy at the moment, was a dark chestnut colour, falling only to shoulder-length. She was not a particularly handsome woman, boasting no especially alluring features. The fact surprised him. He had expected someone of a darker beauty, one that could appeal to men looking for a companion when the nights felt too lonely. And yet, she looked nothing the sort. She looked too normal.

And then her eyes fell on him, and his perception of her was sharply changed. They were a striking blue colour, like sapphires. The colour alone would not have been so startling if not for the gleam of knowing that she held within them. Sharp and alert, they seemed to pierce his soul in a way that made him feel extremely vulnerable. It was as if she was reading him in a way he had learned to read others, though she seemed capable of gleaning even further, to the person beyond his exterior appearance. It was a new sensation, to feel observed with such clarity, and he struggled to calm himself as she stared him down, stared through him.

"You're the one here to question me?" she asked, her eyes looking away.

There was some pained expression on her face and as his mind cleared, he could see now the jagged scar creeping across her shoulder blade. She had not escaped her attacker unscathed.

"Yes, I am," he replied, moving around her bed, trying to reassert his control. He would not be taken aback as such again. His observations were trumped in this instant, with nothing present to guide his understanding of her character. He wished to lash out at her with his first question, to demand she tell him the name of the man she had been with, but he thought of Lestrade and restrained himself, forcing a generic greeting instead. "How are you feeling?"

Her eyes fell on him again, seemingly amused by this line of questioning. "Do you really care?"

Sherlock paused in his step as he came up beside her bed. The height difference, though presenting him with an appearance of superiority, felt to hold an awkward stance, and so he sat, leaning over her. "No."

She smiled, and as she did, her plainness seemed to dissipate, presenting her with a more favourable appearance than before. "Why don't you ask me the questions you came here to ask then, and prevent us any further discomforting attempts at goodwill?"

_Fascinating_. A most interesting woman. He found himself intrigued by her bluntness and accepting spirit. She did not seem averse to him being cold and so he drew on that, unleashing his real self. "Do you enjoy selling your body for money?"

Her gaze hardened, and as they did, he could see walls coming down. Perhaps he should not have started so harshly. "I do not sell my body for money."

Her willingness to provide even a negative response, at least gave him a sense that he could proceed. "You should not attempt to conceal it. I know that you are a call girl and that this evening past you were out walking with one of your clients. Whether of his suggestion or your own, you initiated a relationship in the alley only for him to draw a knife on you. This is all truth, truth I know."

"Is it?" She smiled ruefully. "Well you've been terribly misled. I would ask you for your source, but then you look like someone who likes to draw conclusions all on their own." Her eyes again pierced his own gaze, holding him still. "Your description is not completely accurate, sir."

"How so?" he demanded, sensing now that she would be a more unwilling participant than before.

She attempted to sit up, but in her try, slipped back against the pillow, agony lining her features. "Damn," she whispered as her breath came in sudden ragged gasps. A minute it took for her to fight past the sudden movement. "I am not a call girl."

"But everything else is true," Sherlock pressed her, unwilling to believe that his previous deduction was false. "You were out with a man this evening. You had sexual intercourse in a back lane alley and he tried to kill you."

Her eyes were harsh now, her expression stony. "You're very presumptuous, aren't you?"

He did not bother to reply. She was avoiding his questions. He did not appreciate it; in fact, she was proving to be infuriating. Any moment now Lestrade would storm into the room. He had to have some answers by then. "The details don't matter. All I want is a name."

"My own?"

"No, the name of your attacker."

There was a chilled silence that fell then. She did not blink as their eyes fixated on the others, bonded in mutual animosity. "I don't know his name," she replied finally, without feeling, without tearing her gaze from his.

Sherlock ground his teeth. "You're lying," he hissed, leaning forward.

She grinned at him almost tauntingly. "Why would I lie about it?"

"You're trying to protect him, or trying to protect yourself."

The woman shook her head as she pulled away from him. "I'm not. I don't know his name."

"But you must," Sherlock insisted furiously. He could not look into her eyes anymore, feeling as though they were tearing him apart as they stared him down. She was being difficult, and he did not like difficult witnesses. He could not play this nice game anymore. It was time for a new plan. "You entered willingly into a relationship with him. Why would you do that if you did not know him well?"

She frowned. "You know nothing about sexual impulses, then," she argued and then gasped sharply, her eyes glazing over. "I hardly knew him. We met at a bar. That was it."

"Even so, he would have given you a name," Sherlock argued again. "Why won't you tell me it?"

"Because he didn't give me a name." Her eyes were curious as they watched him now. "You are very persistent on this matter. You're looking for a specific name. You think you know who it is." Her eyes narrowed. "You want it to be a specific someone."

Sherlock did not give reply. She was turning the table on him, proving herself ever more infuriating. "I just want to save women like you. One has to wonder why you're reluctant to do the same."

"I'm not," she said crisply. "You keep asking for a name with the desperation of a drowning man. A guilty person would take advantage of it, would consider it your weakness. I do consider it a weakness, but I will not take advantage of it. You want a name, but I cannot give it. What I can give you, however, is a perfect description of the evening and the man who _raped_ me." She stressed the word raped, regarding Sherlock with sly triumph.

She was playing him, reading him better than anyone before. He grumbled as he leaned forward his chair, angered with her teasing attitude, and even more angered by his fascination with her character. "Then tell me."

"I met him at a bar. I'm not pleased with myself for it. I'm in a relationship, you see," she told him, her voice a melodic slur of rising and falling as she wove her story for him. "We had a terrible fight and I went out, hoping to drown him out. I'm not perfect you see," she explained, as if she had led him to believe otherwise. "I fall to vices like the rest of humanity, just like you." She did not expand on it, though she paused as if waiting for him to insert some snide remark. He made no attempt to do so.

"Continue."

"Well, he was sitting there, alone, drinking. I hardly noticed him, but he noticed me and he offered to buy me a drink. I didn't stop him. Truth is, I'm not usually the sort to be noticed by a man and it was nice to have an admirer, even if he was slightly inebriated. So I let him buy me a drink and we talked about random things. I let him guide the conversation and then suddenly I found him asking me home." She paused for a breath.

"I refused and bid him farewell. I might have been looking for some attention, but I'm not the kind of woman who sleeps around. I was angry, but not vengefully so. I left, but he followed. The rest you can surely guess."

"I don't think I can," Sherlock mused, wondering about the story she had told him, trying to pick it apart, trying to identify it as a lie. "The witness said that you two were both consenting participants."

"Is that what he said? He's sadly mistaken then."

"I don't think he is."

Her eyes were ice as they stared him down. "Are you implying I'm a liar?"

"I think I'm outright stating it."

Her expression remained fixed in discontent, though slowly a smile grew upon her lips "You're an interesting sort aren't you? You seem more interesting in identifying me as a whore or prostitute than finding the real truth. It seems you come bearing a deep prejudice, sir."

"I know I'm right," Sherlock replied without emotion.

"Arrogant sod, then," she commented sharply, but then smiled again. "Unfortunately, I am not who you think I am. But I wonder if my attacker is."

"What name did he give you?"

"We didn't exchange names. I've already told you a multitude of times that I have no intimate knowledge of his name, only his character which I can only describe as a heinous bastard."

"And a definition of his appearance…"

He was cut off then as Lestrade strode suddenly into the room. "That was ten minutes. Your time's up."

The woman's eyes fell curiously upon the detective inspector. "Is he your superior?"

"No," Sherlock replied curtly, paying no heed to Lestrade's presence. "I am his."

"Sherlock," Lestrade chided. "Get out with you."

"I'm not yet…"

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Their gazes flew to the woman, her eyes suddenly sharp with reprimand. She looked flustered now.

"Yes," Sherlock stated uncertainly, vaguely aware that a dark distrust was forming across her features. It surprised him. He could not quite justify this reaction. Turning quickly to Lestrade, he spoke in a hurried tone. "Just let me finish this."

"I think we already are finished, Mr Holmes," the woman quipped firmly. "I must ask you to leave me now."

The cool, unfriendly tone of her voice seemed to come from nowhere, the firmness of her gaze a new, unprecedented expression.

"Because I am Sherlock Holmes?"

She gave him no clear response. "I won't say another word to _you_."

Lestrade threw Sherlock a withering look. "Get out now," he hissed, pushing the detective towards the door.

Stumbling into the hallway, Sherlock turned back, his eyes glazed over in uncomprehending uncertainty as Lestrade shut the door firmly in his face. Now what had that been about?

He stayed rooted in his spot, still mesmerized by the past conversation, her eyes still holding to him as they flashed in his mind.

John moved to his side as he stood in still wonderment. "What did she say?"

Sherlock turned to stare at him, feeling ever so slightly displaced. Pondering, his mind seemed to falter as he searched for some response. "I hardly know."

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

John watched Sherlock with curious eyes. There was something wrong with the detective. He looked distracted and bothered, his silence evoking some wild pondering. It worried him to see Sherlock so perturbed. He had not been able to get a single word from the man and as the minutes dragged on, he could only imagine what had occurred.

"She knew me too well."

John almost jumped as Sherlock's quiet voice broke the silence. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock turned to him wide eyes. "She was going to describe him, but then she learned my name and she stopped talking. Why? What does she know of me?"

"I'm sure Lestrade will learn more," John insisted, realizing Sherlock's primary anger was with his inability to gain any clear understanding of the events. He had a sneaking suspicion that if the woman had closed him off after learning his name, it was no doubt because his reputation preceded him. Even he still got the slightest urge to slap the detective when he went too far in his interrogations.

"Lestrade does not know what to ask." The way he said it, gave John the strangest feeling that perhaps Sherlock had not known what to ask either.

"What did she say?"

Sherlock hesitated, and was prevented from giving a response as Lestrade strode then from the room, shutting the door behind him. "Where is Doctor Harris?"

"What did she say?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring Lestrade's own question.

John could sense a frenzy on the detective inspector's part and sought to relay a response before a feud could commence between the two. "He said he would be back soon. Is she alright?"

"What did she say?" Sherlock asked again, interjecting here too, looking anxious for a response. "Did she describe him?"

Lestrade threw him a cruel look, one that John could not understand. "There are a few things I should ask you first. She would hardly say anything of import. She said she didn't trust you. Why doesn't she trust you?"

"I hardly know," Sherlock responded through ground teeth. "She was telling me her story and was about to describe her attacker when you walked in and ruined the whole thing by naming me."

John gazed between the two, wishing he could be privy to what information they held—as little as it might be. At the moment, these snippets of discussion were painting him a fairly blurred portrait of events. "What did she say, then?"

"Yes, what did she tell you, Sherlock?"

The detective looked frustrated as he was made to repeat her statement. "She states that she was raped and attacked by this man she met at a bar while trying to find solace in a glass of ale—a task I'm sure you've embarked on Lestrade when in quarrel with your wife."

"Is that necessary?" John hissed chidingly as Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

Sherlock muttered a no before continuing. "She swears she doesn't know his name, but I am not so willing to believe her in that sense."

"And what of your call girl theory? Did she give you anything on that?" Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock's face was a sudden mask. "She did not say."

Lestrade's expression swiftly became triumphant. "And you're a liar!" he shouted accusingly, surprising John as he did. "She wouldn't tell me much, but she did explain with much disdain that she did not appreciate your attempt to label her a whore. So you were wrong, and you don't want to admit it."

"I wasn't wrong," Sherlock argued crisply, his eyes flaring under the sharp accusation. "She's different than the others. She doesn't fit. There's something unique about her."

John regarded him, intrigued. "How is she unique?"

Sherlock did not bother giving him a reply as he kept his gaze focused on Lestrade. "What else did she tell you?"

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Only her name—Paige Mayser—and then she claimed she was too tired to say anything else. I couldn't really argue with her. She made it clear though that she doesn't want to see you again and she doesn't want you to be a part of this investigation." He paused as Doctor Harris appeared then to tell him that they were done with the patient. When he was gone, Lestrade proceeded. "I think there's a chance that she might not even be linked to the serial killer. This might have been just an isolated incident."

"No," Sherlock argued firmly. "This is the same."

"How do you know?"

Impatiently, Sherlock wrenched his phone out of his pocket and held it up for Lestrade to see before shifting it to reach John's sight. "I received it almost five hours past."

A disturbing chill spread through John as he read the words typed across the page. _She escaped tonight, but she can't escape forever. I will have her. _

_-JR_

"When did he start texting you?"

"This was the first," Sherlock replied hastily to the doctor, and John was certain it was a lie. "I have no doubt that she was an intended victim of Moriarty's and that he will try again. She needs to be protected and I need to see her again."

"She won't."

"You can force her, yes?"

"If I feel she's hiding something, but I don't know that she is," Lestrade remarked. "She said that she'd told you everything I would need to know. I'll be back in the morning to see what else I can get. I'll double the guard in the meanwhile.

"No one can hold back Moriarty…"

"Moriarty is dead!" Lestrade exclaimed suddenly, his anger flaring as a mixture of exhaustion and frustration meshed and finally broke through his wall of resolve.

A silent hush seemed to fall over the hospital as Lestrade's voice echoed through the hall. Sherlock stood tall, looking hardly affected by Lestrade's outburst. John, meanwhile, could feel his heart pounding within his chest as he watched Lestrade with concern and uncertainty.

"You're too blind…"

"Oh God," Lestrade cursed. "You're obsessed. Do you see it? And you wonder why people can't stand being in the same room as you." He took a deep breath, his anger deflating slightly. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You're help has been invaluable but at the moment, you're proving to be more of a hindrance than an ally. Go home and I'll call you if I need you."

Sherlock seemed to falter now. "If I said something wrong…"

"I just need a break from you. We all do. And you need some rest too, and time to come to terms with the facts that the man we're chasing is not the same one that tried to kill you. He's dead Sherlock. That is truth."

Taking another deep breath, Lestrade left the two of them where they stood, disappearing down the hall. John and Sherlock remained in silence as they watched his fleeing form.

"Moriarty is not dead," Sherlock said then, looking with strange need at John. "You know that."

He was not pleading—John doubted Sherlock knew how to—but there was some sense of want for redemption, for someone to stand beside him here, for someone to be on his side. "Yes," John acquiesced, though his own resolve in the matter was still shaken. "I do."

Sherlock granted him a rare smile as he turned then and walked in Lestrade's footsteps. "Let's go home then. Ms Mayser might have escaped us today, but I am not yet done with her."

Biting his lip, John followed Sherlock from the building. The rain outside had subsided, now only a light drizzle over the quiet London night. As he went, his pocket buzzed with an incoming message.

_We need to talk._

**A.N. Okay. So slight cliffie. Not really though. I have mixed feelings about this chapter and Paige's character. Any thoughts or suggestions? Don't really have much to say. Keep reading and reviewing as always. If I can make 40 reviews before the next posting I will be an ecstatic little puppy! **

**Next chapter: Who's texting John? What makes Paige different than the other girls? And what is she trying to hold back? **


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**A.N. I am SO SORRY! I did not mean to update so late, I've just been overwhelmed by schoolwork with three essays and three midterms. I still have one more midterm coming up next week but I really wanted to get another chapter done for you very patient people so here it is. Again, I'm so sorry.**

**Thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing. I received so many uplifting reviews from the last chapter: moonprincess002, Kiraclara, VMM, Ellie, and SketchbookPianist. I can't express how very appreciative I am of your kind words. And now, onto the story.**

Chapter Thirteen:

Sherlock was talking to the empty air, muttering words under his breath. John had long since left, though he had taken no note of it, and so he continued to speak as if to the good doctor, only for Mrs Hudson to walk in on him an hour after John's departure carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

"….more than just a vengeance. There's another connection, one we're not seeing. Think on it, John, for a moment. These are elevated women in society. You said, Lestrade said, and I have thought it, that only the maid might fit the bill, considering her past life, but the other three would not have wanted to join so easily unless there was something else, something we're not seeing."

"John popped out a while ago now, Sherlock. You talking to yourself, again?"

Sherlock's head shot up as he looked to Mrs Hudson. "You're carrying a tray. I'm not hungry."

"John told me to come up in an hour to check on you. Said you'd been comatose and weren't eating. I have a meat pie in the oven. I'll bring that up when it's done."

Sherlock did not like the prospect of being fed, but said nothing more as he glanced at his phone. Five missed calls. Seven messages. He would not bother looking at them for now. Lestrade had called him yesterday, to tell him that Paige was still refusing to comply with him and was demanding her own release despite the danger surrounding her. She was not willing to consider it, not willing to believe it.

"Let me talk to her again," Sherlock had prompted him, but Lestrade had coolly refused, telling him to stay away from her and to use his time to figure out when the murderer would strike again.

"He won't," Sherlock had insisted. "Not until she's dead."

Lestrade had hung up then, evidently still frustrated with the detective. He needed time, and Sherlock would give it to him while he worked on forming a better idea of the connections between the women. He was stumbling on some new thought now, a thought bigger than just the connecting call girl link he was certain still existed. There was something else, something darker than just a glean into the oldest profession in the world. Moriarty knew these women specifically, he just had to find out how."

"Are you ignoring me then?" she chided him as he failed to pay her any heed. "I don't care if you're busy. You haven't eaten in nearly two days, wrapped up in this horrid case. I might only be your landlady, but that doesn't mean I don't care about your wellbeing. You boys are always running off after the dangerous ones. I always worry that one of you won't come home."

Sherlock sighed resignedly and reached for a cup of tea as tears began to crystallize in Mrs Hudson's eyes. She was really too emotional sometimes. "Thank you Mrs Hudson." He took a sip, and then gestured to the chair that John normally occupied. "Won't you sit for a while?"

She beamed broadly and helped herself to a biscuit and a cup before settling herself down. "John's doing very well with that lady friend of his."

"Indeed he is, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock mused for her sake. Inside, he grumbled at the simplicity of such pleasantries. In truth, he was not too pleased by John's incessant need to spend time with that woman. They had a case; he needed his blogger to bounce ideas off of. Mrs Hudson would have to do for today. "But let's talk about something more generic than John's love life. You've heard enough about this new case."

"Jack the Ripper the 2nd," she said. "I read about it in the paper. Three women dead and another in the hospital. It's just dreadful," she said in sharp disdain. "Sometimes I can't believe that I live in such a world."

"Oh, but you must believe it Mrs Hudson, you must," Sherlock told her sharply. "But I think our problems will be done with soon," he said, though this was pure conjecture.

Mrs Hudson took a sip, her eyes open wide in excitement. "Do you have a suspect?"

"I do," he agreed. _Though Lestrade thinks him dead._ "But it is not good enough to have a suspect. I need to know why these women. The press won't release it, because it's not fact, but all three women are call girls." He watched her eyes grow even wider in horror at the mere thought. "That's why the title…"

"How terrible!" she exclaimed. "Hardly decent this whole affair."

"Indeed," he concurred absent-mindedly, throwing it aside. "Unfortunately, I can't seem to be able to determine which group of girls it is, or why?"

"Do you want my opinion?"

Sherlock nodded, glad to have pulled her into conversation. He had been trying to answer a question for the past few hours, a question he could not conceive of himself. "You're a woman Mrs Hudson. Tell me, why do women have affairs?"

She could speak from experience. "I was watching a show the other day about this sort of thing. One woman was saying how she knew her husband was cheating so she decided to do the same thing. There was another who said it was just for the thrill of the secret. Another that she wasn't being pleased enough. Then of course there was this girl who was quite unlike the others. She said she had the affair because he promised to love her more than her boyfriend could, and that he was gentle and more of the man she wanted. It was only later she found out he was a lying—forgive my language—bastard only after her money."

There was something in there, something he could use. He forced himself to see, letting the words roll through his mind. _The thrill of the secret_. _Only after her money. _But all of this again was just pure speculation on his part and could hold no truth. He needed Paige to speak, and he would achieve it.

Forgetting then that Mrs Hudson was siting before him, he reached for his phone and ran through his messages. As he expected, four of the seven were from Mycroft. _He needs to get a life. _Two were from John reminding him to eat and telling him that he would not be back till later that night. _Too much Sarah._ The last was anonymous.

Flexing his fingers, he pulled the message up.

_How do you catch a dead man?_

_How do you make him talk?_

_How do you protect a woman _

_who desperately wants to be caught?_

_What secrets are there for you to find?_

_What do you seek from my mad, mad mind?_

_How do you catch a dead man_

_When you alone believe what others do not?_

_-JR_

chapterthirteen

John was not on his way to see Sarah as everyone seemed to believe. He had not said that she was his destination of choice, though he had never said otherwise either. It was better that they believe he was with her, then for Sherlock to know that his actual target was the detective's older brother.

Mycroft had sent him three texts in the past day, the last one coming with an urgent edge, nearly begging him to come, stating that it was somehow involved with the case. He could not know what knowledge Mycroft possessed on the topic, but he could not ignore the man's numerous messages anymore and so he was on his way to the man's house, a building he had never seen before, a building he was not quite sure he wanted to.

It was bigger than he had imagined; an intimidating infrastructure of magnanimous stature. In a section outside of London, it fit well into the wealthy atmosphere where many lawyers and such business officials resided.

Three stories tall, it seemed too large for one man. He did not know if Mycroft was married—was almost certain he was not. In what scenario had he and Mycroft ever sought to exchange life stories? He could think of none, nor did he really relish in the thought of learning about the Holmes' boys childhood tales.

A butler answered the single ring, looking far too caricature for the title as he was decked in full suit and tails and looked rather like the Michael Caine version of Alfred.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, his voice deep and low.

"Umm, yeah," John stated, shaking off this surprise. It was as though he was walking into some novel. "I'm John Watson. I have an appointment with Mycroft Holmes."

The butler nodded. "The master of the house is expecting you, sir. He's in the Study. Please follow me."

John suffered a new wave of insignificance as he entered the striking hall adorned with chandeliers and thick rugs. It was the largest house he had ever entered, the largest house he ever hoped to enter.

The portraits of well-dressed men lining the walls gave John the sense that this might just have been the house where Sherlock had grown up. Either that, or Mycroft had bought this off some rich aristocrat and was too fond of the historic men lining the walls to take them down.

The butler stopped before a door on the right and knocked twice upon the chestnut frame.

"Come in."

He stepped forward, pushing open the door. "Mr John Watson has arrived.

"Let him in." Mycroft's voice held no urgency or emotion as John stepped tentatively into the room. He felt strange, trespassing on Mycroft's personal space like this. In fact, it seemed rather unlike Sherlock's brother to allow such an intimate meeting. And yet, stepping into the Study, he felt he knew no more of the man than he had before. If anyone were to walk into his own room—especially someone like Sherlock, though it was highly suspect that anyone existed in the world exactly like Sherlock—they would have gleaned his personality in a quick moment. But here he gained nothing, except the overwhelming sense that the cold exterior Mycroft persisted on displaying was in fact the type of person he was.

"That will all be, Alfred."

John bit down on his lip to prevent the exclamatory laugh wishing to free itself. Was Mycroft aware of how sinisterly stereotypical his butler was? Had he even done it on purpose?

As Alfred—John had a difficult time of thinking on it without amusement—left the room, he presented exactly that question. "Did you put up an ad looking for an older man with the name Alfred to be your butler, or did you just force the name on the poor bloke?"

Mycroft stared at him blankly, evidently confused by the question posed. "What trivial matter bothers you now, John?"

"Nothing," he muttered. Pop culture was vastly wasted on the Holmes' boys. His eyes scanned the room again, but only the marble busts of Thatcher and Churchill could remind him that Mycroft was a man of politics through and through.

Mycroft fell to silence as he perused a hefty pile of papers before him. "I'll only be a moment," he told John inattentively, waving a hand at the chair opposite him.

John settled in. it was not a particularly comfortable chair—no doubt a measure to ensure that one did not overstay their visit. "You were the one who asked me here. It sounded then as if a moment was too much to ask for."

Mycroft's eyes met his over the sheet, his gaze piercing. Setting it down upon the others, he crossed his hands beneath his chin, his eyes never straying from John. "I have been trying to get in contact with my brother for over a week. He has been most unkind in his avoidances, John. I would not have bothered you otherwise."

John nodded. He knew that to be the truth. Mycroft never turned to him unless chasing Sherlock proved futile. John was far more susceptible to rendezvous such as these. "And what is it that you've desperately needed to tell him?"

There was a brief pause in which Mycroft seemed to carefully consider his next slur of words. "This case he's been working on, the one that has him baffled, I have important information to share with him on it that might prove helpful."

Baffled, John stared at the man before him. "And Sherlock wouldn't meet with you to discuss it?"

"He doesn't believe I could possibly have anything of any value to share with him. He's rather stubborn that way.

"I'd say it was an inherited trait," John mused in a tone of severity, incurring a slightly displeased glance from Mycroft. "You know it's true."

Mycroft did not bother with a response. "That's hardly the point, John. Sherlock has to listen to me. This case is bigger than he knows."

"Tell me."

There was a hesitant expression on Mycroft's face as he leaned back, giving John the sudden impression that he had no intention of providing him with any evidence.

"You're not going to tell me? Why am I here then?"

Mycroft sighed heavily as he stood, and moved to a small wine cart. "Do you want a scotch?"

"No," John replied, trying to keep his frustration at bay. "I want to know why I'm here."

Pouring himself a glass, the older Holmes' brother turned to John with tired eyes. "Because I need you to convince him that he needs to see me. I need to be the one to tell him; I don't need a messenger. I just need to talk to him face to face. He trusts you, listens to you. If you tell him it's important, he won't refuse."

"But I don't know that it is important because you won't tell me. I promised myself I would not become a pawn in your game. I'm not here to mediate. When he's ready, he'll come to you."

Mycroft rubbed angrily at his forehead. "He won't come, though. Not without your help."

"I'm not going to lie to him."

"It's not a lie," Mycroft countered him in sudden anger. His nostrils flared as he momentarily lost his patience. "And, in any case, it's not as if he's never lied to you."

John felt the sting of this attack. He did not wish to deal with this issue. It was not that he was ignorant to Sherlock's abounding lies, but he was not Sherlock. "What the hell is wrong with the two of you? You're brothers aren't you?"

"Can you boast a better relationship with your sister?"

It was a far point, and John temporarily fell to silence. _I can't. _"But Harry and I at least talk about life. You two avoid the discussion. You only meet when you need each other. It's a draining relationship."

"You have no idea," Mycroft concurred, falling back into his chair. "Will you not help me, John? I just need him to listen for even half an hour. I worry for him."

"You have a poor way of showing it," John commented, though he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he would not be able to leave this house without agreeing to Mycroft's demands.

"And you're rather poor at hiding it."

Mycroft's short reply did not cause John as much harm as Mycroft had intended. "He's my friend. I would be lying if I said I didn't care about him and worry about him," John told him in a deeply grievous voice.

"Then you will convince him to speak to me."

John hung his head. Yes, he would. "You can promise it's important?"

Mycroft nodded, smiling as he sensed victory. "That I can."

"Then there's no point in wasting time. Come back with me to 221B. I know for a fact he's there right now."

"No…" Mycroft's features faltered. He had not expected such rapidity of fulfilment.

"Why not?" John said, standing then. "You said it's urgent. Your brother's going to destroy himself looking for a man who's supposed to be dead. Seems like there's no time like the present."

Mycroft gaped slightly, though he soon managed to regain his control. "Indeed, I'll just have Alfred pull up the car."

John stifled a laugh as Mycroft reached for his coat.

It was impossible that he was the first person to see this irony. Now to see if Mycroft had a secret cavern beneath his mansion.

chapterthirteen

Sherlock heard the door open, but made no move to stir from his lethargic state. He recognized the assured footsteps of the doctor upon the welcome mat. A smile grew upon his features. The date had not gone so well. Then, there came a sound of second pair of feet, equally, distinguishable, and his smile faded to a frown.

He sat up, suddenly alert. What was Mycroft doing with John? And why was John just letting him in? He could hear them ascending the steps, John's feet falling heavily on each step, Mycroft's cane digging in which each of his.

Standing then, he swept to stand in the doorway, allowing his frame to fill the space just as the two men stepped into view.

"You're not welcome here, Mycroft."

John glanced uneasily at his brother before turning back to him. "He's here at my request, Sherlock," the doctor told him firmly as they both came to stand before him.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed angrily, his gaze shifting swiftly from brother to friend. "What has he threatened you with this time, John?"

Mycroft sneered. "You have a poorly conceived idea of who I am, dear brother."

"I think not, Mycroft," he returned crisply, not tearing his gaze from John's face. He was reading the doctor. There was a reason for him bringing Mycroft here, one that did not sit well with him. The evidence was written so very clearly on his face and in his shifting mannerisms. "John's expression says everything."

Both eyes flashed in John's direction and the doctor shifted, discomforted by this sudden attention. Ignoring Mycroft, John let his gaze fall to Sherlock, his eyes imploring, almost desperate. "He says he has information about the case, Sherlock. Won't you just hear him out? Please?"

Sherlock was hard pressed to ignore John's rather unpleasant pleading. He seemed anxious for him to agree, but the gleam in his eyes proved that he had no better idea of what Mycroft had to say then he did. In this subtlety he found himself unwilling to acquiesce to it. "I don't think I will."

Mycroft was not impressed by his unwillingness to participate in this discussion, his eyes narrowing in disdain. "I have travelled all this way…"

"Yes, and it is always such a pleasure to see you," Sherlock interjected mockingly. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would gladly send you off with some of her sickeningly sweet baked goods." Considering this poorly conceived attempt to converse done, he began to turn, but Mycroft was not quite won over. His hand shot out, stopping his brother in his spot.

"I will not be turned out again, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed. "Stop acting like a child and start to realize that I might be more aware of what's going on then you."

"I will never believe that."

"But it's the truth."

"I doubt it."

"Okay," John cut in then, nearly shouting as his patience wore dangerously thin. Taking a breath, he relaxed his tone. "Why won't you just listen to him, Sherlock. What's a few minutes of your time? If he knows nothing he can leave, and you can feel superior. And if he's right…well, you get the feel like the rest of us do."

Sherlock kept a penetrating gaze on John, allowing seconds to slide by as he hesitantly considered the doctor's words. There was annoyance in his voice—no wonder. He would be annoyed to be called to his brother's house only to be forced to lead him back to the home he'd just left. It annoyed him enough to just see Mycroft leaning against his cane, acting smug, as if certain that John's words were persuade him to reconsider his previous disdain. Therein lay the true conflict. Nothing would please him more than to send Mycroft on his way, unattended to, but doing so would require pushing John's counsel aside. It seemed a peculiar situation to find himself in, one that should not have taken much thought, and yet he was now pondering it, considering it. After a few seconds of minute concern, his decision was the same.

"I'll ask you to leave, Mycroft."

"Why?" It was John who spoke up against this decision, his expression confused. "He's right here. Why won't you just listen?"

Sherlock frowned. There was a rather good explanation for it, a past memory that would not fade, and one that he would not grant John the pleasure of knowing. He would rather keep it sunk for now, and he trusted Mycroft to do the same. Indeed, Mycroft's head was downcast now, as if he too reminisced on the disastrous event. "Because I do not take advice from my brother." Done with the short reply, he placed full attention on Mycroft. "I will ask you to leave only once more and not to bother me any more on this matter, or John. Is that understood?"

Mycroft glowered, but did not argue this. He was disappointed, and the look on his face gave Sherlock a great sense of satisfaction. "You should not let the past decide the future, Sherlock," he said then, as he prepared to leave. "I will not call on you again and in time you will see that your stubbornness will be your downfall. John," he added in curt farewell, obliging the doctor with a short nod before descending to the floor below.

John waited for the door to close behind him, before turning to Sherlock. "Would it really have been such a crime to listen to him?" he asked sharply.

"More than you know," Sherlock replied as he returned to his seat on the couch, flipping open his laptop as he did. As he did, he threw a quick glance at his mobile, only to see that two new messages awaited his attention.

He opened the first as John walked into the kitchen. It was from Lestrade.

_No new murders. You still can't come._

A rather pointless text. He deleted it angrily and moved onto the second.

_The dead don't speak_

_Nor do the living_

_When Sherlock Holmes_

_Comes a calling_

_Here's a wee riddle _

_To make pass the time_

_To lend you some insight_

_To this well-conceived crime_

_When one's not like the others_

_Who've been left out to die,_

_Why chase them at all_

_Unless to make someone cry_

_- JR_

Frustration gripped at Sherlock as he pushed it aside. He bent his head, his hands squeezing at his hair as a blind rage pushed through him. Why the riddles? Why the hushed words? Why? He hated the taunting. It made his head burn, it made him feel as if he was on fire…

"Sherlock?" John was standing beside him then, his hand gripping the phone, his eyes having already perceived the message. "How many of these have you gotten?"

Sherlock wrenched the device from his hand and stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He did not want to speak to John now. He needed to get back to that hospital, to talk to Paige. She was the key to this puzzle. If Lestrade would not listen to reason, he would be forced to take rather extreme measures.

John pushed through the room without bothering to knock. "Have you told Lestrade about it?"

Sherlock threw him a withering look. "Are you really so daft that you can't comprehend a slamming door to be a wish for silence?"

If John was injured by this sharp retort, he did not show it. "If you won't tell Lestrade, at least tell me. We're in this together, Sherlock. Why do you always seem eager to forget it?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I do not forget it, but there are some things better kept to myself. Now grant me some peace. _Please_." He added this gesture in hopes that it would better persuade John to drop the matter entirely.

He was not successful in his attempt. John had taken up some stony resolve that refused to fall. He would not be easily swayed to leave. In truth, it impressed Sherlock to see some backbone in the doctor, but at the moment it was more aggravating than anything. Finally, he chose to use John's determination to his advantage. "If you can persuade Lestrade to let me see her again, I promise to divulge all I have kept previously private."

"Lestrade can't be persuaded," John told him quietly, not acquiescing to this request. "You'll tell me now."

"You can't force me."

John was silenced by this for a brief interlude. "Perhaps not," he conceded, "but I can ask you to, as a friend, show me the grace of honesty I've shared with you."

Sherlock was saved the trouble of responding to this as his mobile buzzed now, signalling an incoming call. The name blazoned across the screen made his entire being shiver with anticipation.

"Will you let me come?" he asked before the caller could speak.

Lestrade paused, stumbling now as he was taken aback by Sherlock's quick question. "No…well, yes…Sherlock, she's gone."

**A.N. Cliffie again. I'm terrible with that. I hope this chapter was okay, it was a little rushed, I just wanted to get it out. It's not that big of a chapter, just setting up some new conflicts and new ideas and new plots that will be explored more carefully in the next two or three chapters. Leave a review to let me know what you think.**

**Next chapter: Sherlock and John begin a search that leads them to discover rather interesting facts about the missing Paige. **


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**A.N. Oh gosh! I'm so sorry for taking so long to update. The past few weeks have been hectic and the work still keeps rolling on. Two weeks of exams still remain and then I'M done. I feel horrible though for letting this sit and I had to write something, even something as short and terrible as this. If there are mistakes, I apologize in advance. I just want to get this story done and when it is, I'll probably do a re-write and re-publish that later.**

**Thanks for all the support and amazing reviews. Your words inspire :)**

**But for now, here is the next chapter of Burning Hearts.**

**Please enjoy. :)**

Chapter Fourteen:

The hospital was in an uproar when Sherlock and John arrived. Lestrade was a complete mess, looking far more frayed than he ever had before. Deep in discussion with Sally Donovan, he hardly noticed Sherlock's approach, and when he did, he hurried forward to talk to the man.

"It's an absolute disaster, Sherlock," he said, his voice worn and tired. "I don't know how it happened. There were two men stationed outside her bedroom and twice as many stationed around the main exits. He should not have been able to get to her."

Sherlock listened attentively as Lestrade rambled on, glancing quickly around the room. There were cameras stationed in various crevices, ensuring that any escape by this means would have been recorded. He would not have as foolish as to bring her out in a way that would have garnered unwanted attention.

"How long ago now?"

"I went to check half an hour ago and she was gone. The last time anyone went in to see her was almost an hour before that. It's a wide gap."

Sherlock nodded. It was a very wide gap. Hopefully a quick glance at her room would grant him some further insight. "Have you touched anything?"

"Nothing," Lestrade replied. "I just sent Donovan to check the security cameras. Hopefully they might prove useful."

"I doubt it," Sherlock muttered as he strode past the detective inspector, needing no reminder of the room Paige had once occupied.

Lestrade and John followed close behind him as he swept into the room. He looked first to the ceiling. There was one camera here, turned away from the bed, towards the entrance. That would prove no help either. He scowled at it, hopeful Donovan would see the sneer.

Next, his eyes fell to the bed. Spots of blood afflicted the covers and mattress, though most of it looked far too old to have been inflicted recently, more so the result of changing bandages. Stepping closer, he bent down to inspect. There was a darker spot, fresher than the rest. Still, it did not mean anything.

There was a single window here, and it was indeed big enough for someone to have entered through. He crossed the room to gaze outside. There was tiny ledge here and they were only four floors up, but he could not have possibly been able to lift her down all this way without attracting attention. Something was very wrong with this…very, very wrong.

After a close sweep of the entire room, Sherlock found himself stumped. It was a terrible feeling he had been forced to endure for the past week and as he faced it again, deep resentment billowed in his chest. "It's impossible. Your men must have moved from their duty."

"They did not," Lestrade said fiercely, aware that Sherlock had not explanation to present.

"Then they were part of the ploy."

"Sherlock, I trust these men with my life. They're not a part of this."

Sherlock frowned. "Then she was abducted by aliens." Said with great sarcasm, he let it hang in the air as he stormed from the room.

John came up beside him a few seconds later. "You have no idea how he did it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I have many ideas."

"Real ideas, Sherlock, not stories of aliens."

Sherlock grimaced again and came to a halt. "There are many plausible explanations. I need to better examine the grounds beneath her window."

"It's already been done," Lestrade commented as he came to stand with them too. "There was blood in the bushes. Molly Hooper's doing a test right now…Sherlock, where are you going?"

The detective offered no reply as he hurried up to the labs, anxious to meet with Molly. He had not forgotten their last rendezvous, and still felt that she possessed more information than she would say. She would not escape him this time.

Throwing open the doors, he found Molly bent over a microscope. She looked up anxiously as he came in, and as she took in his sight, anger flared in her expression. "You have to leave now," she hissed. "I don't want to see you."

"Oh, but I really wanted to see you," Sherlock relayed in a sarcastic tone, realizing only after that this was a poor method to take on if he hoped to get her to talk. "I know you haven't been my greatest fan of late, but I am rather in need your assistance in a matter."

"If you want to talk to me about _him_ again, you won't get a word out of me."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm more interested in finding out about her."

Molly bit her lip as Lestrade and John came into the lab now, looking anxious. "Sorry to bother you, Molly," Lestrade offered to the plain-looking girl before turning his fury on Sherlock. "Would you stop running about like a chicken with its head cut off?"

"I'm in the middle of a conversation," Sherlock told him sharply, his gaze remaining on Molly. She was doing her best not to meet his gaze. What was she hiding? "Molly was just telling me about what happened to Ms Mayser."

"I was not." Molly's eyes flashed as she turned to face him. "Don't lie."

He perceived her gaze with interest. She was pretending to be strong, but something was amiss with her, something had her greatly perturbed. "What happened to Paige Mayser?"

"Why should she know what happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept silent, though a thought did resound in his mind. Ignoring Lestrade's question, he pressed another to Molly. "How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?" she demanded sharply.

"How did you get her out?"

Molly gaped, as she stammered through a response. "You think I…why would I…" Tears were forming in her eyes under these accusations but he would not buy her innocent act. If she had not orchestrated the kidnapping, she was certainly involved in it somehow. He refused to let go of that belief.

"Sherlock, leave her be," John chided him. He stepped to the detective's side and tugged at his arm. "We're leaving now."

"Tell me where he is, Molly," Sherlock continued, shoving John aside. "Tell me."

He stepped forward, but John yanked him harshly back, nearly pulling his shoulder from his socket. A dull pain echoed up his arm and he turned to face the doctor with glazed eyes.

John's expression was steady. There was no regret. "Leave her alone."

Without saying a word, Sherlock shoved past him and left the room without another word. He breezed through the hallway, ignoring the footsteps following him until a strong arm pulled him back.

"What the hell was that about?" Lestrade demanded furiously. "Do you really think Molly capable of committing a crime like that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but she's involved somehow. I know she is."

"You can't be serious," Lestrade murmured. "You're chasing delusions, Sherlock: dead men, mousy girls. Are you at all interested in solving this case or are you just trying to wear me thin?"

Sherlock was filled with resolve in presenting his reply. "What you think to be delusions, Lestrade, I know to be fact. Therein lies a most important difference. If you don't believe me now, you will soon, and then you will be offering me a most grievous apology."

Lestrade kept silent. "If she's dead, Sherlock, I'm throwing you off this case, and this is no warning. I'm being serious." He was indeed most stern in his expression and delivery with every inch of sincerity evident in his tone. "It's been a week and you have nothing for me. For once, I think you're just as stumped as the rest of us, and I'll not have you running around chasing innocents if it leads to nothing. Do you understand?"

Sherlock grumbled, frustrated by the lack of respect and trust. "You know me better than this Lestrade. If I say that Moriarty is behind it, that Molly might be an accomplice, it's because there's a chance they are."

"I would have trusted you once, Sherlock, but I can't anymore," Lestrade responded, his voice heavy with regret. "I can't ignore the obsession in your eyes. I've jeopardized my job asking for your help and you keep taking risks that I can't afford. I need you to clean up your act or that's it." He sighed again. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock paid no heed to his apology as he stormed away then, not bothering to wait for John to follow him away.

chapterfourteen

John did follow him, though it was obvious that Sherlock was not pleased by his presence. It was a sentiment he could understand. After their latest scene, the last thing he wanted to do was share a cab with the detective. But they did anyway, and unable to keep the silence, he prodded the detective for answers to his unusual behaviour.

"Lestrade's right; there is something terribly wrong with you."

Sherlock barely stirred at the accusation, offering no reply—snide or otherwise.

"You may think you know best—because you always have—but your last few decisions have gone from bad to worse. It's been a week Sherlock and you're no closer to solving this case and now another woman is dead…are you listening to me? Do you even care?"

Sherlock's cold eyes fell darkly upon him. "I will not listen to your complaints any more. If you and Lestrade are so certain that everything I do is a mistake then by all means, solve this case on your own, but stop attacking me with your incoherent accusations."

John paused. "Your brother…"

"You will not bring that up again," Sherlock interjected angrily. "You know nothing of our relationship and I will not please you with some great telling of it. Stop pretending to know what's best for me and return to doing what you do best."

"And what's that?" John asked frigidly, bristling slightly as he waited for the detective's reply.

"Listening."

Silence fell between them, a silence too unbearable for John to stand. Leaning forward he demanded that the driver stop and before Sherlock could grasp the situation, hurried out of the cab, slamming the door behind him. He did not expect Sherlock to follow him, and his expectations were rightly met as the cab drove off again leaving him stranded in the middle of London.

The cold hardly touched him as his insides burned with raw anger. He had not felt such animosity for Sherlock in a while. As concerned as he knew he was for the detective's mental health, he could not stop his growing contempt of his methods and his treatment of Molly and his obsession with Moriarty. He was far too interested in finding _that_ man than solving the case, but Sherlock could not see the truth of it and he would not hear reason. So why should he waste his breath?

He hailed a new cab then, offering Sarah's apartment for his destination. There was no possibility of him spending the night with Sherlock. None at all.

His phone buzzed then, and a single glance left him grimacing. He would not answer this call. Neither Holmes Brother would merit his conversation tonight.

Rejecting it, he entered another number known by mind into the device and waited for Sarah to answer.

"I'm in a terrible rush, John. How important is this?"

Hearing the urgency in her voice, John hesitated. She would not be able to take him in tonight and though he possessed a key to her flat, he did not feel comfortable with merely letting himself in.

"Not very. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Bye."

He hung up dejectedly and turning to the cabbie, requested that he take him to 221B instead. There was no other place he could consider going to in this moment, and he would hide out with Mrs Hudson if he had to, to avoid Sherlock's surly wrath.

As the cab swung around another call came in. Certain it was Sherlock this time, he glanced at it with disdain, but surprise flitted through as Lestrade's name flashed on the screen.

"What has he done this time?"

Lestrade chortled half-heartedly. "Nothing yet, but I just got Ms Mayer's address and in my relaying it to Sherlock realized he was alone. I can't have him there without supervision and I refuse to babysit him on my own. I would appreciate your presence, John."

Sighing heavily, John consented. "But you do owe me," he added sharply. "And I should warn you, Sherlock and I are at odds at the moment."

Thanking him, Lestrade let the line hang and John excused himself as he relayed the third address to the cabbie. "I promise it's the last time."

"You work with that detective?" the cabbie asked him as he pulled a turn, seeming undaunted by the constant changes in direction. "The tall, dark one with Turrets?"

John held back a laugh. "Yeah. You know him?"

The cabbie nodded. "I drove him last week. He was working on that Ripper case. I'd only heard about him before, but seeing him in action is something else entirely. He was chatting away in the back seat and no one was there and every time I spoke up he just threw out insults like confetti on a wedding day. An interesting bloke, but a sharp one." He paused then in his rambling. "You must be Doctor Watson?"

"Unfortunately."

A laugh broke from the cabbie's mouth. "I understand couple's rows. Me and my partner had a good fight last night. He didn't come back till early morning, but we made up real good if you get my meaning."

He did and he held back the usual reply bursting in his mind. _I'm not gay._ Why did everyone always think he was? Cause he wasn't. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but, he wasn't. Maybe Sherlock was. Personally, he was convinced the detective was asexual, but that was only his opinion. "Yeah, well, getting into a row with a man like Sherlock Holmes is not normal."

The cabbie continued to keep John in conversation as they drove on for nearly half an hour until they came to a rather rundown area of London, where the buildings teetered on the brink of decrepitude. _Paige Mayser lived here? Sherlock will be excited._

"Good luck with your laddie," the cabbie offered as he came to a halt before the appropriate building where a police squadron had already set up a barricade. This place appeared less dingy than the rest, but not by much.

Lestrade was waiting for him as he appeared, and he was not alone.

"How did you get here before me?" John demanded. He knew for a fact that Sherlock would have had further to travel than himself to arrive at this place.

Sherlock shrugged. His intent on avoiding John's stare was clear indication that the detective held some injury towards him. "Must be my methods."

_Well played, Sherlock_.

Sensing the tension between the two, Lestrade broke through with a loud cough. "Ten minutes."

"Fifteen," Sherlock interjected firmly. "Fifteen minutes and I go alone." He cast a gaze in John's direction. It was unnecessary.

Sighing heavily, Lestrade took a second to ponder the request. "Twenty minutes and John goes with you."

Sherlock paused, scowling as he considered the offer. "Fine," he consented and threw the doctor a withering glance. "You will not interfere, you will not talk. You will watch and listen."

"Is that really necessary?" John enquired. He was the one Sherlock had insulted, not the other way around. What gave the detective the right to act cold?

Sherlock gave him no reply as he turned to make his way up the pathway to the dilapidated building.

John looked to Lestrade as he did. "I warned you. He doesn't want me here."

"But I do," Lestrade insisted. "Go on. I don't trust him alone in her place."

Left with no choice, John threw his hands into the air in a gesture of defeat before hurrying in the wake of the detective.

chapterfourteen

He did not understand why Lestrade had insisted on having John join them. It was disturbing the excitement he had first felt when Lestrade had given him her address. He had believed—rather mistakenly, it would seem—that it was an attempt to reconcile and a sign of regained trust.

Perhaps John did not deserve the cool indifference he was treating him with, but he considered John's accusations to be extremely injurious. He trusted John above everyone else. To have his doubt was, admittedly, distressing.

He did not need anyone telling him he was obsessed—he knew it to be true. Knowing it to be truth and being told of it over and over again were two different matters. His faults were his own and he did not care to have them pointed out.

His eyes roved the room before him again, ignoring the form of the doctor lingering in the corner with uncertain eyes. The flat that Paige Mayser called home was not what he had imagined for her. It was dismally small and noticeable rundown. A three-and-a-half, it was comprised of a bedroom, a den, a kitchen/dining room and a bathroom. _Sex doesn't pay._

The den he now stood in was cluttered with loosely scattered papers and books, mostly fantasy novels and newspaper clippings from the obituaries. There was no TV to be found, no radio or laptop. She had one phone, but no answering machine. The single chair was a rocker of navy blue. Beside it, stood a bookcase filled to the brim. Here he could see that she had a diverse love of novels as he glanced at the authors. Defoe, Kant, Marx, Rowling, Tolkein, Austen, King.

Done for the moment here, he continued into the kitchen, John following a bit behind him. This room was cleaner than the last. A single table stood nearer to the door, with only a chair standing at each edge of it lengthwise. The cupboards held nothing of intrigue, nor did her fridge. Sweeping through it quickly, he found nothing of interest and left within a minute of entering.

Her bedroom, he knew, would hold all the answers. They always did.

He found himself disappointed at first glance. A single bed was the only furniture to be found there. Nothing else.

He frowned as he strode to her closet and jerked it open. Rifling through her clothes, his disappointment continued to grow. There was nothing to be found there either, only normal clothes, boring and dull.

A thorough search of her mattress gave him no more knowledge of this girl. He slammed his fist in frustration against it as he stood once more. Why was this so difficult? It should not be.

He wanted to blame it on John, but he could not. The doctor was keeping his promise, staying quiet as he watched from the frame.

Knowing his time was running down, Sherlock allowed his gaze to drift to the floor, trying to discern some anomaly in the planks of wood that might show a secret hiding place. But there was nothing to be found there, nothing that could determine his theory to be right.

John jumped aside as he stormed from the room, returning to the den. He grabbed at the obituaries, and scanned them quickly, finding that these were now proving more helpful than anything else.

Pausing, he allowed his mind to cleanse itself as he came to a sudden conclusion.

"She doesn't live here." John's expression was one of uncertainty as Sherlock turned to face him. "She can't live here."

"But Lestrade…"

"Maybe she lived here once, but she doesn't live here anymore, and hasn't in a while. These obituaries are from five months ago. She said she had a boyfriend. She must be living with him."

John seemed wanting to say more, but held back.

"Say it," Sherlock allowed, realizing that he did want the doctor's opinion now.

"Lestrade said that no one's been to visit her, that no one's declared her missing. She might not have a boyfriend."

Sherlock shook his head. "She does though, he just never showed up."

"Why would she still have books here, though? And why these obits if she doesn't live here anymore? It doesn't seem right."

"She wants people to think she still lives here. Anyone would think she does."

"But you're not anyone."

"No, I'm not."

The sound of feet hurrying up the stairs broke their conversation. "What do you have for me, then?" Lestrade asked as he appeared before them.

"She doesn't live here. She's been living with her boyfriend. We need to find him."

Lestrade shook his head. "There's no family we can find, no relations…"

"Yes, John has been kind enough to fill me in on the details," Sherlock interjected, not wishing a repeat of the information he'd already received. "But there has to be someone because she doesn't live here anymore."

Lestrade sighed. "I'll keep looking, but for now there's nothing I can give you."

"She might be dead if you don't find something soon," Sherlock reminded him coolly. "Is there nothing else you can tell me about this?"

Lestrade paused. "Not on her, but Donovan called me just two minutes ago. She went through the camera footage."

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. "And?"

"And nothing. The cameras had all been turned. He must have hacked the system. We have no leads. We might have to just give up."

But Sherlock was not so certain. Saying nothing, he ran suddenly from the room. He had told his cabbie to wait in case, paying him handsomely for his time. The man was still there as he came out into the night air. Could the resolution be that simple? There was nothing to lose by trying.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

John came up next to him, huffing as he caught his breath.

"I don't need you to come."

"I'm not letting you go alone."

Sherlock paused, watching the doctor. "If you're coming, you have to understand something. I'm obsessed, yes, but I'm not crazy. If you're with me, you can't doubt me. Lestrade does enough of that.

John nodded resignedly. "Fine, I won't mention it again, but only because you're the only one who can nab the sick bastard."

"And you're more than just a listening tool," Sherlock conceded after a brief second. "Come on, then. It's time I paid my brother a visit."

chapterfourteen

John had not expected to find himself here again. He stood beside Sherlock as the detective rapped angrily against the door.

The butler did not open the door this time, Mycroft appearing before them himself. "I was wondering when you would call."

"How much did he pay you to make him invisible?" Sherlock asked harshly as he shoved past him, striding furiously into the house. "Did he threaten you? Is that what you've been trying to tell me? Is that the information you possess? Because, I will…"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft interjected rather loudly, grabbing at his brother's arm to restrain him in his rant. "Stop. You have it all wrong. Just let me…"

"I will not let you ruin this one for me too. I will not!"

"I think you'll find, Mr Holmes, that Mycroft has ruined nothing."

John turned to stare at the woman now standing in the hallways before them. He had never seen her before, but that did not mean he did not know who she was.

Paige Mayser looked rather healthy considering her ordeal, standing before them, wearing a shirt that could only be Mycroft's.

"Mycroft and I were about to have supper. Would you care to join us?"

**A.N. Okay, so a few answers are being provided now. I won't say more. In the next chapter, Sherlock learns more about Paige and strives to get Molly to open up about the truth. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. **


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**A.N. Hi. Yes it's me. I'm alive, and this story is not done. **

**I'm sorry it's taken so long. Things keep happening, life keeps happening and I've been shuffling a few things around. For those of you who don't know, I'm currently trying to publish my first novel—a story I wrote when I was fifteen, believe it or not. I've been busy with that for a while, plus my sister and I are trying our hand at writing a TV series. Anyway, life's been complicated with work and family and finally yesterday I decided to put time aside to complete the next chapter of Burning Hearts and Dangerous Minds. **

**I want to promise that all chapters will be done by July 1st, but I don't like making promises I can't keep. All I can say is that it will get finished sooner rather than later.**

**To all my readers who've stayed since the beginning, thanks for sticking around. This chapter is for you.**

**And to all my reviewers, you have no idea how much I appreciate your kind words of inspiration. Not only do they make me want to keep writing on FanFiction, but to also pursue my own writing for good. Ta!**

**And without further ado, Chapter Fifteen:**

Chapter Fifteen:

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. There was silence around the table, a dense, awkward silence that refused to lift as the four waited for dinner. No one had spoken since Sherlock had accepted Paige's invitation for supper. He and Mycroft shared intermittent stares of cold suspicion while Paige watched them, a look of amusement on her lips. John watched them too, but he was not as amused as she. He wished to break the silence, but feared the repercussion of such an action. He had been scolded enough for one night; he did not want to endure the like again.

Sherlock was drumming his fingers against the table, his gaze steady on Mycroft. His elder brother was silent still, not commenting on the incessant noise that was pervading the room. He was forcing patience upon himself, refusing to be moved by his brother's petty attempts to rile his anger. As John watched the two of them, he could not help but think on the immense childishness these two grown men could convey while in each other's presence. Mycroft had said to him once: _"You can imagine the Christmas Dinners." _John had responded then that he couldn't, and even now, when faced with this odd supper, he could not bring himself to try to envision these two as adolescents. _Their parents must be saints._

In the end, silence was broken as supper was brought out to them. Four plates were laid out, each laden with a vinaigrette salad and a hefty slice of fish. Taking this development as reason to proceed with the action, Paige spoke out. "I know you have questions, Mr Holmes. Perhaps we should waste no more time."

Sherlock glanced at her quickly, his eyes narrowing. John stared at her, too. He was, in all truth, fascinated by this woman. She did not appear as someone who had been raped and almost murdered. After their arrival, she had quickly changed into a black skirt and a tight-fitting red blouse that hugged her small body with grace. There was nothing entirely gorgeous about her, but there was a strength in her, and a fortitude, a need to move forward that he found impressive. She was not just any woman. He wondered if Sherlock realized the same.

The way in which Sherlock spoke next, though, led him to believe otherwise.

"How much does my brother pay you?"

Mycroft, who had been tentatively reaching for his glass of brandy, pulled back now, his fist falling upon the table with angered force. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was unfazed, his gaze resting still on Paige, waiting for her reply. "I assume my brother would need to pay good money for a woman of your age. Unless of course, he's the boyfriend you mentioned in our first interview."

A small smile crept up Paige's face. Reaching for her wine glass, she rested back in her seat, bringing the liquid to her mouth and taking a deep sip. For a few seconds, she just sat, watching Sherlock. "He is the very same."

John could not see Sherlock's expression, but he could see the tensing of his muscles as Paige's answer danced around his question, failing to come back to the conclusion he had drawn long ago, that all these women were call girls.

"Let me be blunt with you then, Ms. Mayser. Are you a whore or not?"

The red that exploded in Mycroft's face would have normally caused John to laugh, but the fury in his expression caused him pause in that respect.

"Do you have no decency, Sherlock?" Mycroft sputtered, his words flying with added harshness from his lips. "How dare you insult her in such a manner?"

"I take no offense, Mycroft, dear," Paige assured him, reaching out with a hand to touch his own. The action caused John some bewilderment. Even when first discovering her dressed only in Mycroft's shirt he had assumed that she had simply chosen to wear it with no other choices available after escaping the hospital. Yet now again he was forced to consider the fact that there was something far more intimate between the two, a thought that made him cringe with the weirdness of it. He had never before imagined Mycroft with a woman, wife or otherwise, had never imagined Mycroft to be interested in such time-consuming relationships. Plain or not, the age difference between the two—he assumed there was a fair gap—made the match no easier to comprehend.

Sherlock seemed to think the same, as his gaze fell intently on the touching hands. At this angle, John could see the sneer curling over his lips. "Whether or not you have taken a fancy for my brother, a fact I assure you brings to question your sanity," Mycroft glared at him, "it does not by any means prove that you are not or were not at any time a call girl."

"And yet, I am not what you are so intent to think I am," Paige spoke with fierce sincerity, her voice steady, her gaze surer still. John could see no trace of lie in her expression, not that a good liar could not conceal their affinity for falsehoods if they tried. Still, there was some unforced severity in the way she spoke.

"All cards on the table here, Mr Holmes," she continued briskly. "My life's in danger. That is why Mycroft helped to orchestrate my escape. He knew that I was being hunted, and he knew that Lestrade and his men would prove utterly unreliable in protecting me. He saved my life and brought me here. But I am still not safe. That man is still out there, still hunting me. He won't rest until I'm lying in a pool of my own blood. I'm not proud enough to not admit that you're the only one who can stop him. I'll tell you everything I need to, to see that madman locked up." She paused to take a breath, never blinking as she held Sherlock's stern gaze.

"I know why you want me to be a call girl. But that's not who I am. I was never that person. I don't know why he chose me. Maybe he's trying to hurt you, by hurting Mycroft."

Sherlock scoffed.

A smile fell briefly on Paige's lips before fading again to stern severity. "The idea is rather disjointed I suppose, but I will swear now that I am an exception to the rule you've created. I'm sorry for that."

She finished, her eyes still lingering on Sherlock's. The detective held it, and John felt certain that the two were trapped in their own world, miles away from the table and supper. He could see Mycroft's eyes narrowing in discontent at the connection between the two. If he was jealous, he was being silly. Sherlock was not that kind of person, and despite Paige's respect, John could sense no such tension between the two. This was something else entirely. He just didn't know what.

Decided that it was enough either way, John cleared his throat, bringing the two of them back to reality. "If it's worth anything," he said in a small voice, "I believe you."

Amusement flickered in Paige's eyes and John frowned as he realized that she was only then looking at him for the first time. His presence had not been felt before.

"You're John Watson, right?" John nodded. "Mycroft's told me good things about you."

She was generous in her talk, but he could tell that he was as insignificant to her as the bug crawling along the Grandfather clock. Perhaps not so insignificant, but the point was made. His word meant nothing.

Her eyes were already focused on Sherlock again, waiting. "Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced down at his plate. He did not look pleased.

A moment passed, and still they waited, no one speaking.

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head to meet her eyes again. He nodded once. Then he stood. "A word, Mycroft."

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the room. Mycroft watched him go for a moment, and then sighing heavily, stood to follow him.

John watched the two men leave, feeling embarrassed now to be seated alone with the woman who he believed ardently had slept with Mycroft Holmes. He shuddered at the thought.

"You think I'm wrong."

"Pardon."

Startled by her attempt at conversation, John floundered under her piercing gaze. Sherlock had mentioned something about that, he remembered, something about how her eyes could stare through a person. Seeing them upon him now, he could understand what the detective had meant.

"You say you don't think I'm a prostitute, but you definitely think that something has to be amiss for me to be involved with a man like Mycroft Holmes," Paige repeated, spelling it out, unabashed.

John shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried swallowing. It didn't work.

Paige laughed, and as she laughed, he found that she was prettier than he had originally thought. He thought of Sarah, and wished he could see her again. It had been a long time since they'd last dated. "Is it really that strange, for me to be attracted to him?"

He shook his head again, though inside he was thinking: _yeah, kinda. You know, just a little. _"Love is what it is."

She laughed again, this time the sound booming derisively. "Oh, Doctor Watson, forgive me. But what a statement do be heard."

Slightly wounded by her deliberate mocking, he frowned indignantly. "You don't love him, then?"

Paige's laughter stopped, her face falling to a more serious expression. "I don't know if love is the right word. There is something else, there always should be." She paused, contemplative. "Love is a term the Media has introduced for their own benefit. Love as platonic, as friendship, is perhaps something far more conceivable, I'm sure you would agree."

John gazed at her puzzled. "I would…"

"You and Sherlock are thick as thieves as I've heard. I distinctively remember Mycroft saying that you were willing to blow yourself up for the man. Do you have a better definition for that?"

John did not like this line of interrogation. He felt discomforted discussing his relationship with Sherlock with others, when it was something he still did not properly comprehend. "And so why are you in a relationship with Mycroft?"

"For the sex," Paige replied, her grin widening as she replied without hesitation.

John could feel his cheeks burning as he blushed under her lack of chagrin. "I don't know…"

"Have I embarrassed you, Doctor Watson?" Paige enquired softly, leaning forward in her seat. She took a sip of her wine before placing it aside. "I suppose you find it difficult to imagine Mycroft as a very adept lover."

He wondered how many shades of red his face was showing off now as Paige's laugh continued to echo. He hoped Sherlock was facing just as difficult a situation.

n

In a way, he was.

There were not many occasions spent together that the Holmes brothers could admit to being pleasant, if there were any at all.

Perhaps they could consider a rather rare incident when a two-year old Sherlock had begun to cry after being stung by a bumblebee in the family's back yard and his big brother had taken the responsibility for soothing him. But then, neither of them really remembered that moment, and they were far more content to believe that it was merely a story concocted by their parents to try to lead them to a stronger bond. Such attempts had been futile.

Standing then in Mycroft's study, Sherlock could only observe his brother with strong loathing, his eyes dark with ire. "How dare you not bring this to my attention sooner?"

It had not escaped Sherlock that Mycroft had previously tried to inform him of his relation to woman he still doubted was not a prostitute. There was something unnerving about her, and he knew people well enough to know that she was holding a secret tightly to her chest. Her sworn promise meant nothing. In any case, Mycroft should have and could have done much more to gain his proper attention if he had only tried.

Mycroft was not of the same thinking. "I told you multiple times that I had information that might be helpful. All times you pushed me aside. Do not place the blame on me here, dear brother. It is your own pride that kept you from learning the truth days ago."

Sherlock glowered, but made no immediate response as he let his mind drift through the events of the last few days. He tried to remember the first time Mycroft had come to him, the first time he had offered his services. The date returned to him fairly quickly, and it surprised him.

"You came to me before Paige was even attacked."

Mycroft's gaze faltered. He sank into his seat, pouring himself a glass of brandy. He poured a second and pushed it to Sherlock. He did not take it. "Did I?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know something else." He too took a seat, but still refused the glass offered while his brother drank heartily, downing the whole of the amber liquor. He was stressed. "What else are you hiding, Mycroft?"

Mycroft placed his empty glass aside, not bothering to refill it. "Am I to understand that you want my help now? You didn't then."

Sherlock nodded. "Circumstances have changed."

"You should have believed me before."

It occurred to Sherlock that he was stalling, but he would play Mycroft's game now to get to some clearer answers. "After the last time we had to work together? I think such a calamity should justify my hesitation." He paused as Mycroft began to pour another glass. "But that's not the point. You came to me, warning me not to pursue the case before Paige was taken. Why? What did you know then?"

Mycroft lifted the glass to his lips, but failed to take a sip. He lowered it, his eyes heavy. "I told you then, that my matters would only be discussed after you dropped the case. The case was not dropped, so I kept my words to myself. And then…and then she disappeared."

His eyes were bleary as he met Sherlock's gaze. It shocked the detective. He had never seen his brother look so small. He seemed wearied and worn.

"Fine," Sherlock stated, admittedly thrown off by his brother's sudden change in demeanour. "And she's safe enough now, so tell me what it was that you had wanted to say then."

Mycroft's gaze fell as a reply came muffled and incomprehensible from his lips.

"You'll have to say that again," Sherlock told him, his voice without cruelty, but also without compassion. There was no sympathy for his brother that he could hold. He was impatient to know what he was missing, to know what Mycroft had wanted to say then. The answer that finally came was not satisfying.

Bringing his head up, Mycroft swallowed. "She was what I wanted to tell you about. Paige Mayser. I wanted to tell you about her, but I worried that with you being on the case, she might be placed in peril."

Sherlock was slow to understand the words Mycroft had said. He let them roll around in his brain. "You wanted to tell me that you were sleeping with a girl. Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know. I had no one else to tell. Certainly not because you're my brother." He seemed to be musing aloud rather than stating a response for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock wondered if there was sarcasm in his words, but in the end he realized it was not worth his energy to figure it out. "And that was all you had wanted to say then. Just that you had a girl. And now you think it's my fault she was even attacked in the first place."

"Well, it's not because she's a call girl."

Mycroft was committed in his statement. Sherlock would not have expected anything less from any man in love…in love. He flinched internally at the thought. "I had thought that perhaps…"

"Perhaps what? I can hardly believe that your big information was just that you were rolling about with a girl under the sheets?" Sherlock stood abruptly. "Once again, you prove to waste my time."

Mycroft stood too, suddenly offended. "You came into my house tonight, first accusing me of working with a dead man and then accusing Paige of being a prostitute. Now, you accuse me of being nothing more than a waste of time. I will not stand for it, Sherlock."

"And yet, you'll get nothing more from me, Mycroft." Sherlock felt a sudden rise of contention for his brother rise up through his chest. "You've gotten soft with this girl. It's changing you."

Mycroft was silent for a second, but there was no anger when he replied. "There was a time when I would have agreed with you, Sherlock, that caring for something is a weakness, something that holds us back. But I'm not so convinced anymore. Being with Paige makes me regret years being alone. Life's a long path to walk without someone to take it beside you."

"Alone is better," Sherlock spat out, disturbed by his brother's unexpected change in countenance. "She has you under a spell."

"And John Watson has you under one as well."

That was it. A line had been crossed. Both brothers sensed it, but perhaps a little tipsy with alcohol, Mycroft was too slow to also sense the anger forming in Sherlock's fist and was not quick enough to avoid the ball of flesh as it flew towards his right cheek.

n

John heard the first sounds of the fight from where he sat, still flushed by the words Paige had said. Though she had quickly asserted that her reason for being with Mycroft was more for a sense of similarity and likeness than his ability to please, he could not fully escape certain images dancing in his head.

As the sounds of a scuffle became more pronounced, John rose from his chair, eager to push aside the last few moments. His thoughts turned first to Sherlock, concerned that Mycroft had grown too frustrated with his brother's indecent nature, but upon further contemplation, realized that only the detective would be brave enough to throw the first punch.

Starting forward, he was called to a sudden halt as Paige's voice broke through.

"Don't intervene. Whatever they've engaged in will not lead to great harm to either of them. In fact, I do this will do them more good than anything."

"How do you figure?" John should have continued on without heeding her words, but something about her advice struck him as true.

Paige smiled. "Mycroft has told me enough about his relationship with Sherlock for me to know that there is a lot of tension between them. Verbal sparring is never as successful as pure physical violence in my good opinion."

"I would contest that," John said shortly. But then, he had fought in a war.

Paige shrugged. "They won't be at it long, I promise. Mycroft won't damage Sherlock's perfect cheekbones."

"I'm not worried for Sherlock's sake."

"S0 you take great concern in Mycroft's well-being?"

John could sense this conversation slipping away from him. "I suppose…that is to say…Sherlock is a…friend…"

Paige's amusement could not be more evident. "It's admirable Doctor Watson, but I would warn you now. Sherlock is not a man to have friends."

"Firstly, what is it with everyone being so damn eager to assess my relationship with Sherlock? And secondly, what makes you such an expert on it?"

Paige's amusement faded, as John snapped at her. She appeared taken aback by this sudden show of backbone. Her response came after a while. "To answer your first question, I imagine people are assessing your relationship because it's so damn fascinating. Sherlock Holmes is not a man to take kindly to just anyone."

"And again," John accused. "You've met Sherlock a grand total of two times, and suddenly you know everything there is to know about him. I've known him almost five months and he's still a mystery to me."

"I've heard enough stories from Mycroft to know what sort of man Sherlock is. And in two meetings, I've gathered enough information to understand that his personality is not one that easily meshes with others. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but the man I've seen does not seem the loyal kind."

John pondered her words, and pondered his own irritation and the angered frustration growing in his chest. In the last few days, his 'relationship' with Sherlock had come under much scrutiny within his own mind. But he had decided that there was a friendship between the two of them, unorthodox as it might be, so why was he letting her lead him into doubt again?

"Sherlock might not be the easiest man to read, Ms Mayser, but I can assure you that he is loyal to those who are loyal to him." He thought of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Whatever spats the detective might indulge in with them, there was no doubt that he also cared for them in a way only Sherlock could. "And that is it."

Paige was silent as she contemplated his words and then nodded. "Perhaps Mycroft was biased in his description. You would think that being brothers, loyalty between the two would be normal occurrence, and not some hidden affair."

John shrugged. "I don't think the Holmes' are typical in their brotherly relationship."

"I think you're right."

They smiled, and for the first time, John allowed himself to relax in her company. Plain or not, Paige was a different type of woman. She was intelligent in her speech, and more eloquent than most people he knew. He wondered what she did for a living, but before he could ask, another voice called from the hall.

"John! We're going!"

Sherlock's tone was curt, and John was aware that while the shortness might not yet be directed at him, it would be if he did not follow through quickly enough.

"I enjoyed our conversation, Doctor Watson," Paige offered sincerely as he stood. She also took to her feet and walked around the table to shake his hand.

"I think you can call me John."

"You think?" she laughed.

"I know," he corrected.

"Then I will." She released his hand and saying nothing more, swept from the room.

He shook his head as she went, feeling slightly dizzy. Following in her wake, he saw Sherlock standing by the door, looking harried. He also noticed the blossoming blue spot under his left eye.

"Mycroft got you."

Sherlock scowled, but said no more as he threw open the door and stormed from the house.

John hurried after him, taking care to close the door gentler than it had been opened, wondering all the while if Mycroft had taken any punches in return.

n

He had.

Fists had flown a grand total of five times, but only three had hit home.

Sherlock's first throw had collided generously into Mycroft's cheek, sending his brother sprawling out of his chair. The rest had followed in somewhat of a blur. He remembered Mycroft standing in a fury, trying to retaliate. He had flung two at Sherlock before a third had made contact with his right cheek. If Sherlock had been intent on beating him, Mycroft would have already been out senseless, but he had restrained himself. When Mycroft had finally gotten in a punch, he had thrown another, this time hitting Mycroft in the nose.

Slumping to the floor, already in somewhat of a dazed stupor, Mycroft had admitted defeat, using a hand to staunch the flow of blood now emitting from his nostrils.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Mycroft demanded as Sherlock passed him a box of Kleenex.

Sherlock shrugged. "You're in a bad sorts; it was time you had sense knocked into you."

"How clichéd," Mycroft sighed as he stood then. "I honestly never thought we would stoop to this point."

"You brought us here," Sherlock said accusingly. He believed it too. If Mycroft had not made such a crass comment. _And if you hadn't been so riled by it._

He shoved aside the voice in his head. He had already been on edge. And it wasn't so much the comment, but the stupidity of it. He was tired of people's stupidity. Sherlock allowed the explanation to run about in his brain until it sounded like honesty.

Mycroft looked exhausted as he took his seat. "I only want your help."

"You will have it."

A sign passed through Mycroft's lips. "Then you may leave. And you may not return until I say you can."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he regarded his brother. "I thought you wanted my help."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean we have to see each other. We have a hazardous relationship, Sherlock. Being in each other's company is proving a test."

"And what of Ms Mayser?"

"What about her?"

Sherlock frowned. "You've made such a great attempt to rescue her. Do you not intend to pursue her security?"

Mycroft eyed him sharply. "She's safe here, if you're implying otherwise."

Sherlock scoffed. "Safe? Moriarty knows that she's here. Not even your militarily trained security guards will be enough to keep him away. He'll get to her eventually."

Mycroft appeared riled by this coarse statement. "I will keep her safe."

"You will keep her safe?" Sherlock taunted. "You can barely keep yourself safe these days."

"Then what do you suggest I do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hesitated in his reply. He knew, realistically, that Mycroft's mansion was the best place for her to be. There were enough locked doors to ensure her continued safety. But he didn't need her safety. He needed her out in the open. "Perhaps 221B Baker Street would prove a more promising arrangement. That way I can watch her at all times." _And bait him with her when the time comes._

Now Mycroft sneered, the irritation in his eyes growing. "You underestimate my intelligence," Mycroft hissed. "I am not some simple-minded man. Your intentions are less than honourable, dear brother."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wouldn't let any harm befall her."

"You can't even protect a man you've devoted yourself to. I doubt you could do any better for a woman you care nought for."

Sherlock bristled under yet another attack. This conversation was at an end. "When she is found dead in your house, you may grovel to me for forgiveness."

Mycroft stood once more, his fists curled as they banged against the table. "If you fail to find the killer before he finds her, I will never speak with you again."

"I have no qualms with that scenario," Sherlock coldly responded before hastily turning on the spot and storming from the room.

n

Sherlock was silent the duration of the taxi ride. John was too exhausted to draw him from his withdrawn state. There was still much for both of them to consider. The nights events had proved turning and neither could begin to imagine the quagmire that was spilling forth to drag them down.

They arrived at 221B at some ungodly hour and took great care in not waking Mrs Hudson from her slumber. She was, however, already awake waiting for them.

"I've been worried about the two of you. Gone all day. Gone all night. I feel like I never see you anymore, and what with that man running about, killing women…" She let her sentence drag as Sherlock walked past her without a word, taking the steps two at a time.

John shook his head as he watched the detective flee. He would have to enquire in the morning after the final discussion he'd shared with his brother.

"He's just tired," he offered to Mrs Hudson as her face fell. "It's been a long day."

Mrs Hudson nodded, her expression pensive. "John, I think sometimes, this case will take the life from him."

John said nothing, the gravity of her words echoing with his own reservations about Sherlock's involvement in the case, and his obsession with discovering Moriarty. "He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson," he reassured her. "He's Sherlock Holmes."

She did not look convinced. He didn't blame her. He held no conviction in his tone. "You'll look out for him."

"Always," John promised and then bade the woman a good night, seeing her safely into her room before retiring to his own.

His head had barely touched the pillow that he fell into a deep sleep, free from dreams.

On the floor below, Sherlock laid in bed staring at the ceiling. He would sleep not a wink that night, his mind too clouded with images of bleeding hearts, laughing Moriartys and flames rising from the ground to consume him whole.

**A.N. Okay, not the best chapter, I'll agree. I think I rewrote the encounter with Mycroft and Sherlock about three times before I was satisfied. Hopefully you're not too turned off by it. The relationship between Mycroft and Paige is more complicated than it might seem, but we'll see more about that later. **

**The next chapter has a few more discoveries, a bit more action and a lot more heart. **

**I apologize for any typos. Like I said last time, I intend to do a full edit once the story's completed, but for now I want to try to get this finished asap!**

**Please leave a review to let me know if you're still enjoying it, if you have any constructive criticism, suggestions or questions. **

**Love all,**

**Faith xo**


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**A.N. Surprise! New chapter! My quickest update in a long time. And my worse chapter too :P Trust me, I'm not being humble. **

**There are so many things I'm trying to get to, but I keep faltering in my execution. I hope this story is still proving entertaining. I think this chapter might be a bit more exciting than previous ones, but not by much. Hopefully my inspiration will blossom more cohesively in the next few chapters.**

**Thanks to HowlynMad for reviewing and for everyone who continues to add this story to alert and favourites. I appreciate the support in every form.**

**And without further ado, the next chapter of Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games:**

Chapter Sixteen:

The morning rose dull and damp over London. Torrents of rain had cleansed the streets of the night and only a muggy scent and drenched pavement was left to hold its memory. The clouds were thinning though, and the growing brightness left hope for a rainless day.

In 221B Baker Street, Sherlock watched as the darkness of night gave way to a pale dawn. Visions had kept him restless through the night, his mind delighting in the torment of his obsession, projecting images that left him haunted even in these waking hours.

In the deathly silence of the room, he could feel himself drifting between two realms: reality and his mind. Never before had he found himself so overturned by a single case. It occurred to him in these hours when he was alone with his thoughts, that he was slowly losing ground on who he was. Here, when no one else could be privy to the truth, he allowed himself to admit that he was slowly falling apart. Moriarty had promised to drive him to the brink. He was not one to disappoint.

Above, he could hear John slowly rising from his slumber, the floor creaking as his weight shifted off the bed. He knew the doctor would want to speak with him this morning after he'd failed to invoke discussion the night before. It was becoming ever more difficult to pretend to be unfazed by the occurrences of the world. But he would take the challenge willingly to escape John's care.

He reached for his mobile, hoping that for news had come in the recent hours, but it was silent, containing only four messages Lestrade had sent early in the previous night while Sherlock had been in the company of a girl Lestrade still believed was MIA.

_Any developments on PM? – L_

_Have your found something yet? – L_

_Why are you ignoring me? Call me asap – L_

_SHERLOCK! _

They had stopped after the last, but Sherlock fully expected that they would continue soon enough.

He was, as of yet, unwilling to inform Lestrade that Paige Mayser was well and alive in Mycroft's house. First, he was concerned that the spreading information would disturb the protection guaranteed her. Once she was prepared to bait, he would let the information go free. But for now, it was better kept secret.

John's footsteps echoed down the staircase. Lethargic and heavy, they accentuated the weariness that Sherlock had seen the night before, lined into the good doctor's face. This case was taking a toll on him too, perhaps not to the extent that Sherlock knew, but enough.

The floor outside his bedroom door creaked, a shadow falling through. John lingered before it for a moment, before moving on, his direction most likely set at the kitchen.

He would have to face him soon, but not yet.

Three women had died. A fourth had survived, but she was not safe. He felt confident that the first three were call girls. Paige was his one doubt. She had to be connected. Her relationship with Mycroft could not be the reason. If Moriarty wanted him to hurt, he would have gone after Mycroft himself or John or Mrs Hudson, not a girl he had no real attachment to. No, that was not it. But then what?

And when would he strike next? And how was he supposed to be caught?

He had to know the name of the agency the call girls were coming from. But there was no trace to be found. Moriarty had been thorough. He had erased it all and left Sherlock with nothing to consider.

Still, someone must be noticing that girls were dying. Someone would come forward sooner rather than later. Fear for their lives seemed like a reasonable explanation, unless this ran deeper.

He mulled over the thought. Maybe it wasn't that simple. Maybe these girls were something more. Call girls, yes, but more still. But what?

A knock came suddenly at his door.

Sherlock flinched, taken by surprise. He cursed inwardly as his thoughts were mercilessly cut off, slipping away from him.

"What?" he snapped curtly.

John faltered beyond the door. "Sorry, Sherlock, but you have a visitor."

"I didn't hear the door," Sherlock mumbled as he rose from his bed. Truthfully, he often didn't hear such things when lost in his thoughts, but still, his mind would have registered the sound of a ringing bell.

He came out of the room, his shirt and pants wrinkled from having been worn for nearly two days without pressing. It bothered him not, though John took note of it with disdain.

"Didn't you sleep at all?"

Sherlock was silent as his eyes fell on the other occupant of the room. He was here earlier than expected.

"You didn't answer my texts." Lestrade's voice was accusatory as he regarded Sherlock with cool eyes.

"I didn't have anything to say," Sherlock responded. He daren't risk glancing at John. He had meant to warn the doctor to not mention anything to Lestrade. He would have to hope now that John would hold his tongue on the matter.

Lestrade was not convinced. "You left in such a frantic hurry yesterday. You realized something. Tell me."

Sherlock had been mentally preparing a lie, but he had not had time to perfect it in any way. "There was a flat number listed in the Gordons registry, one that was highlighted. It belongs to a man with no real connections. It was strange to see it, but I thought it held little weight until yesterday. My instincts led me to believe that perhaps Ms Mayser was living under his roof, but I was mistaken."

There was no hint of reluctance as Sherlock spoke and he could see in Lestrade's eyes that the DI was prepared to believe it. Though he still had questions to ask.

"And the fact that all the cameras had been turned?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It seems highly likely that Moriarty managed to do such a thing to enable his escape."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed, but he didn't pursue a line on the still disputed identity of the perpetrator, and in his hesitation, Sherlock came to an astounding realization. Lestrade had news to share, news big enough that he had chosen to seek the detective out in person to relay it.

"What's happened?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes fiercely glowing with anticipation. "What's changed?"

Lestrade frown slowly transformed into a smile, and the excitement building in the pit of Sherlock's stomach took full bloom. "Someone's come forward with valuable information."

"Someone? What type of someone?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Before I tell you that, there are some details we have to discuss. This person refuses to deal with Scotland Yard. They want you. As frustrating as it is, I'll let it slide, because this is something I think you'll agree could be the turning point for this case."

"Your attempt at suspense is unappreciated," Sherlock told him blatantly. "Tell me who this person is Lestrade and then we'll discuss logistics."

"She wants protection, Sherlock. But not through us." He paused, as if the next piece of information was something he found difficult to understand. "She wants you to protect her."

"She?" Sherlock questioned, hardly interested in the concept of protection. His mind was bristling with possibility. "Is she…"

"She is," Lestrade confirmed.

Sherlock nodded, his breath catching in his throat, his heart hammering madly in his chest. He had hoped, had wished, and here it was. Moriarty had set up an elaborate game, with pieces strewn across the board. It was Sherlock's turn to make a move.

chaptersixteen

Lestrade left almost as quickly as he had arrived. His visit seemed almost pointless in John's eyes. But he could understand that the information being delivered was sensitive and deserving of more than just a text or phone call. What he could not understand was Sherlock's hesitation to give Lestrade information on Paige's whereabouts. He had kept his silence, not wanting to overstep his boundary, but if Sherlock failed to provide a reasonable explanation, he would consider it his duty as a civilian to aid the police in their investigation.

Sherlock was abuzz, flying high so to speak in the wake of the news. He and Lestrade had decided upon a time and place to meet the woman and then it would be up to Sherlock to see her protected, to get whatever information she could give.

John was admittedly fascinated too. He had wondered before about Sherlock's theory, but now it seemed certain. They were going to get somewhere For the first time, they had a tangible piece of evidence. 'Moriarty' had done his best to keep them in the dark. But no more.

"Why didn't you tell Lestrade about Paige Mayser?"

Sherlock barely looked to John as he stalked into his bedroom and set to rummaging about in the indefinable contents of his drawers.

"It wasn't the right time."

"Will there be a right time?"

"Maybe. It depends."

John sighed exasperatedly. "On what?"

Sherlock provided no response, as he pulled out a slip of paper. There was something scrawled upon it, but John couldn't decipher it.

Ignoring him, Sherlock picked up his mobile and entering a number waited for the line to pick-up.

Not privy to the conversation as a whole, John could only listen as Sherlock spoke in cryptic words to the person on the other line.

"New torments and new tormented souls I see around me wherever I move, and howsoever I turn, and wherever I gaze."**1**

John blinked. He recognized that sentence. He just couldn't think from where.

There was a bit of pause and then conversation flowed.

"I have a job for you…the next week, maybe more…that's not a factor…no questions asked…when the hour is clear. Salutations."

John watched as Sherlock placed the phone aside, grinning triumphantly. He then promptly reached for a lighter on his bedside table and set the paper in his hand to flame. The fire caught and the paper burned with violent rapidity.

Sherlock threw the hazardous spectacle into the waste bin, watching with disinterested eyes as the paper crumbled to ashes, the fire dying out.

"Should I even ask?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's better if you don't. You're far safer not knowing."

John released a long breath. The two men were silent as they stood in the room, neither sure what to say next.

"You and Mycroft had a good row last night."

Sherlock hardly flinched as he turned to look at the doctor. His bruise was fading, but still evident. "My brother believes himself to be in love."

John started in shock, unable to grasp the concept. "That seems highly improbable."

"I agree. But Mycroft does not see it, and now he imagines himself far too invested in this case. The last time…" Sherlock faltered, letting the sentence fall away.

It was fascinating how one case had managed to create a great rift between the brothers. He imagined there was something more to it than just one isolated event, but whatever had transpired had been enough to drive an even deeper wedge between them.

"Any chance of you telling me what happened?"

"You'd have better chance getting Moriarty to give himself in."

John frowned, but did not press the detective further. There was a new aggravation in Sherlock's voice, one he daren't see grow. "Forget I asked." He paused, contemplating. "Are you going to be okay tonight?"

"Hopefully I'll be better than I've been in a long time," Sherlock assured him as he stood then and made his way into the main room. "But I'll be borrowing your gun."

"You already have my gun," John reminded him, shaking his head exasperatedly. He took a seat as Sherlock reached for his laptop. "You will take this protection thing seriously, right?"

"Without a doubt," Sherlock assured him without looking up from his screen.

"You don't plan on using her as bait?"

Sherlock hesitated, glancing up for a brief moment. "Do you think I would do something like that, John?"

"Yes. I know you're planning to do it with Paige."

Sherlock smiled, pleased. "Good for you." He looked back to his screen. "But I don't plan to do it with a woman who offers me information. Have no fear on that count. I'll see her come to no harm."

There was enough sincerity in Sherlock's voice to leave John reassured that he would not place the woman in any danger.

A few moments they sat in silence as Sherlock typed without pause across his keyboard, his fingers flying expertly over the keys. After a time, he closed the top of his laptop and stood. John watched him wonderingly.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a matter _I _need to discuss with Mrs Hudson," Sherlock told him firmly as he moved towards the staircase.

Accepting that he was not wanted, John sat still for a few more minutes before calling up Sarah and arranging a date for that evening. For once in a long time, he was not needed by Sherlock, and he would treat the opportunity being given with great appreciation.

chaptersixteen

Sherlock stood in the dark shadows of an abandoned alley, shivering slightly in the strong chill of the evening. The warmth of the day had given way to colder temperatures than normal at this time of year. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, tugging at the collar of his coat to grant better protection from the blowing wind. _Where was Lestrade?_

They had said 7:00. It was almost twenty minutes past that. He had called, twice, but with no answer. He had sent a text to John too, but there had been no reply there either. He was anxious for a reply, anxious to return to the warmth of a cab.

Five more minutes dragged by, and still nothing. Almost certain now that something had gone wrong, Sherlock pulled out his phone again and hastily dialled in Lestrade's number a third time. He was not expecting an answer, but hardly had the phone rung once that a voice came through from the other line.

"Stop calling."

The impatient voice that replied was not Lestrade's, but it was one that Sherlock knew unfortunately well.

"Anderson? What the hell are you doing with Lestrade's phone?"

"It was his idea, not mine. I told him it was stupid."

Sherlock had to put in his effort to not snap at the incompetent man at the other end. "Where's Lestrade?"

"He's on his way," Anderson replied shortly, sounding rather annoyed. "He thought he was being followed, so he went out of his way to make sure no one could pursue."

"And you've had his phone all this time, and decided not to answer?"

"I had no desire to talk with you," Anderson informed him coolly.

"Nor do I." And he hung up.

Shoving the phone into his pocket, Sherlock grumbled, his breath white in the cool air. Lestrade was being paranoid. It was not a good sign.

His pocket began to vibrate again. This time it was John.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly. "You didn't answer your phone."

"Sarah told me not to."

Sherlock had forgotten that the doctor was on a date, not that he particularly minded bothering him. "Well, nothing's wrong. Lestrade's just late."

"Okay." There was a long pause, and Sherlock was fairly certain he could hear Sarah's voice calling John back. "Next time I'll answer right away."

"Good."

He hung up and Sherlock leaned against the wall, wishing desperately for a smoke. It would at least keep him warm. He was fairly certain on that point.

Headlights shone suddenly through the darkness, catching Sherlock in the glare. Three times they flashed him. _What a wonderful way to avoid detection_, he thought sarcastically as he drew closer to the car.

Lestrade sat in the driver's seat, alone.

"Where's the girl?"

"Waiting nearby. Get in."

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly as he made his way around the car and slid into the passenger's seat. He sighed inwardly as the warmth inside began to dispel the cold of his body. "She isn't the crowned Princess."

Lestrade glowered as he pulled away from the alley. "I thought someone was following us. She was glad for the efforts I made."

"I'm sure she was."

Lestrade pulled to a sudden halt, regarding Sherlock with a fierce gaze. "Take this seriously. She's risking a lot, coming to us with information. If he finds out, he'll kill her."

"I'm sure he already knows," Sherlock told him bluntly. "But I will tell you as I told John, I will do my utmost to keep her safe."

Lestrade held his gaze for a moment longer, as if trying to determine the strength of Sherlock's honesty. Satisfied, he pulled out again, driving slowly through the rather empty streets. A few minutes they drove in silence, before finally pulling to a halt in front of a small building.

"You left her here alone?" Sherlock questioned.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. She's somewhere else."

"Where?"

Lestrade passed him a piece of paper. Sherlock glanced at the address scribbled across it and sighed exasperatedly. "You're mad."

"Not more than you," Lestrade replied. "She should be there already."

"And all this was absolutely necessary?"

"We're all being watched, Sherlock, I'm sure of it, and no one more than you. All precautions are necessary."

"And the phone switch?"

Lestrade smiled suddenly. "I told Anderson it was to prevent anyone from tracing me. But really, I have a few calls to make and I wanted to save myself a few dollars this month."

Sherlock chortled appreciatively as he exited the car and stepped back into the biting cold. "Whether or not they know she's there, she'll still have the best protection."

"I want to trust you, Sherlock, really I do," Lestrade said, his tone suddenly weary. "It's just…these days, safety seems like a lot to ask."

Sherlock did not waste time providing an answer as he stepped away from the car, slamming the door shut. Lestrade took off, leaving Sherlock to watch his departure. He glanced around the street. A few people were milling about, but none appeared to be troublesome.

Tugging his coat tighter around him as the wind came to the whip against his body, Sherlock began to walk.

It took him a few minutes to realize he was being followed, and a moment more to finally concede that Lestrade may have been right after all.

chaptersixteen

Sherlock arrived at 221B, later than he should have, aware that every inch of his body was nearing the feeling of numbness after being exposed to the cold for too long. He had tried to shake loose his shadow, but had ultimately failed on all counts. He had, at one point, considered rounding on them, but the realization that he was one step ahead of them so long as they remained ignorant of his knowledge kept him from trying too hard. Chances were, the girl had arrived here without anyone's notice.

His fingers shook as he placed his key in the hold, finding it a difficult task to undertake. Finally, he got the door to open and strode into the building, only to find that there was no real warmth here to quickly ease away the frost developing at the tip of his fingers.

"Mrs Hudson!"

The woman appeared from behind her door, looking harried. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Why is the heat not on?"

She sighed exasperatedly and hurried into her flat, leaving the door open for him to follow. "I've been busy tending to this poor girl. She's been waiting for you."

Sherlock forgot the cold as he came to a halt a few paces away from where a girl sat in one of Mrs Hudson's great chairs.

Dark-skinned with round, emerald eyes, she looked a foreign beauty, far more beautiful than any of the other women he'd met in this case. She couldn't have been older than 25. Her lips were pursed together, her forehead crinkled in a frown, but as she gazed at him, the concern of her expression faded away.

She stood. Wearing a large, blue sweater and tight black jeans, it was difficult to get any sense of the form beneath, but she was tall, nearly as tall as he. She reached forward with a hand.

"Mr Holmes."

He took her hand and gripped it tight.

She gasped. "You're cold as death."

Mrs Hudson leaned forward and reached for Sherlock's hand. "You poor dear. I'll get the heat on then. Darling, would you pour him a cuppa from the kitchen?"

The girl nodded and hurried in Mrs Hudson's wake. Sherlock watched her go, fascinated. She did not seem so helpless. He had expected a more bedraggled being, perhaps beaten and abused. But she seemed healthy and strong. It intrigued him.

She returned with a cup and handed it to him.

He took a sip, the burn of the liquid a relief as it erupted through him, spreading warmth to every tip. He placed it aside. "You're not what I expected."

The girl smiled. "What were you expecting, Mr Holmes?"

He gave her no reply as he took a seat. "The room downstairs isn't ready yet, but it will be in time. For now, you'll stay here, with Mrs Hudson."

"Can you guarantee I'll be safe?" she enquired softly as she resumed her own place across from him.

"I can guarantee I'll do my best, but you'll have to comply with my every word," he told her, his voice without compassion.

Her emerald eyes seemed to shine then with tears. She looked away, wiping furiously. "I appreciate it."

He watched her, feeling no real emotion, but not wanting to see her distressed either. Distressed meant unable to speak. He needed her mind clear. "Don't cry."

Her gaze was puzzled as she looked to him again. "Is that an order?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's a suggestion."

She laughed ruefully, her eyes dry again. "I haven't slept well these last few days." She paused. "I would have come forward sooner, but I couldn't…I was afraid…I suppose I still am. But I kept thinking, it won't stop, not unless someone steps forward to help. I'd die if I didn't anyway, so it's a risk worth taking."

Sherlock was impressed. She was smart and brave. She would prove helpful. "Perhaps you would like to start speaking now."

She seemed amused by his suggestion, a small smile creeping over her lips. "Wouldn't you first prefer to learn my name?"

He shrugged. "Names are inconsequential."

"Even mine? Even Moriarty's?"

His eyes widened as he stared at her. He leaned forward, his body burning with sudden prospect. "What do you know of Moriarty? Is he the one pursuing you?"

She fell silent, looking suddenly frightened by the vindictiveness evident in his tone. He stood and she did too, her hands raising as if to defend herself from his fury.

"I spoke without thinking, Mr Holmes. I…"

Her sentence cut off as Mrs Hudson joined them then. She observed the two, caught in a sudden tension. Concern flitted across her tired features. "What's going on here, then? Are you upsetting her, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cared not to reply to Mrs Hudson's badgering. He wondered if the girl had meant to say the name only to affect them, or if there was a greater reason. And would he get her to open up about it now under Mrs Hudson's watch? Probably not.

Indeed, Mrs Hudson seemed set on getting the girl to sleep as she swept into the room. "It's been a long day. We should get some sleep. You'll be able to talk to her in the morning, in her own flat. It should be good for tomorrow afternoon. I have Fernando working on it. He's very handy." She seemed to blush as she made her last statement.

It was not what Sherlock wanted, but he would allow it if he had too. He would probably get more from the girl anyway away from Mrs Hudson's hovering form.

The front door unlocked and the sound of two muffled voices floated through the thin walls. He recognized them immediately and inwardly groaned at the thought of having to see Sarah.

"That'll be the Doctor. It sounds like his evening went well," Mrs Hudson commented, hoping to use this now to draw Sherlock away. "Either way, I'll ask you to show yourself out, Sherlock. Come along, Zoey."

Mrs Hudson hurried out of the room, expecting her guest to follow her.

"Zoey?"

She met his gaze, looking slightly miffed by Mrs Hudson's namedrop. "I doubt it means anything to you."

"Nothing at all."

"Zoey?"

Mrs Hudson's voice called after her.

"She's a kind lady," Zoey muttered as she prepared to follow after the landlady. She looked once more to Sherlock. "I'm not going to keep information to myself. I hope you know that. I know you probably don't trust me, so let me give you something now. I'll tell you one name that is not quite so inconsequential as mine seems to be."

The name she spoke left Sherlock churning with electric excitement. He knew the name. Yes, he knew that name very well.

chaptersixteen

John followed in Sherlock's quick stride as they hurried up the steps of a rather large two-floored cottage. It was hardly passed nine in the morning, and though he had insisted on waiting until a more acceptable hour of the day, Sherlock had been adamant on arriving early enough to ensure that the owner of the house was still there, and not halfway across the world.

"Who is this again?" John asked him blearily. He had gotten to bed rather late the night before.

Sherlock stared at him. "You could have stayed home."

"No, I couldn't," John argued as he tried to—unsuccessfully—stifle a yawn. "Now, who's house is this?"

Sherlock smiled as he placed his finger to the ringer and pushed three times. "Our pimp."

John blinked furiously, shaking his head as he tried to wrap his mind around Sherlock's choice of words. He opened his mouth to question the detective, but had no chance as Sherlock began to raise his voice.

"I can see your shadow under the door. We're here to see Mr Reynolds, concerning a very urgent matter."

"He's not expecting you at this hour. Come back later."

It was a high-pitched female voice that came back, trembling somewhat.

"Let us in. know what this is about."

"What's your name?" The faceless voice enquired.

"Doctor John Watson and Doctor Barnaby Sholmes."

"Wait a minute, please."

John shuffled anxiously on the step. "That's a clever name. It's nice to see you didn't try to give me an alias."

Sherlock noted the sarcasm in the doctor's voice. "It won't matter anyway."

"Why not?" John demanded. "And did you even arrange an appointment?"

Sherlock was saved the trouble of answering as a high-pitched scream suddenly echoed from the house.

"Reasonable cause," Sherlock muttered before kicking out at the door with firm expertise.

The door flew backwards, jarred off the hinges. Without wasting a moment, Sherlock took off into the house. John followed after, lagging slightly behind as his tired mind tried to process the events he was now caught up in.

Ascending the steps in great bounds, the detective reached the upstairs hallway before John. He stopped before a door ajar, his face expressionless.

Coming to his side, John stared into the chamber. A portly woman with ebony hair was kneeling on the floor, her body wracked as loud sobs echoed from her mouth. On the floor before her lay a man, semi-nude, blood pouring out from his recklessly slashed neck.

**A.N. Oh dear! What does this mean? Who is this man? Who is Zoey? And who's following Sherlock? These questions just might be possibly answered in the next chapter. Some probably more than others. **

**Also this is a big moment. So long as everything goes according to plan, there remain only five chapters to be written! Ah! This story might finally be finished after all! Miracle of all miracles :P**

**In the meantime, review and let me know if you're still interested, or if I'm diving too close to the deep end.**

**Thanks to all,**

**Faith **


End file.
